


The Tower of Maybe

by TheWoodenplank



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Adventure, Gen, Lore - Freeform, Mystery, Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:09:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22561540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWoodenplank/pseuds/TheWoodenplank
Summary: Our two heroes are Reclaimers - adventurers employed by Morrowind's grand Council to reclaim the country's heritage - lost artifacts, treasure, history - in the wake of the catastrophic Red Year in Tamriel's fourth era.Their long, strange journey takes them to the lost island of Vvardenfell; and beyond.
Kudos: 3





	The Tower of Maybe

  
**The Tower of Maybe**

  
The heat was stifling. For reasons I couldn't fathom, Galam refused to have windows carved in his office walls and so only the thin stone walls sheltered us from the dreadful heat of Narsis's summer. I could feel myself beginning to sweat; a slow droplet trickling down my temple and (I might've imagined this) felt the pores of my arm pits opening, dying to let out the heat. The scratching of Galam's quill upon dry parchment wasn't helping; it was irritating. Very irritating.   
I was trying very hard not to sweat, as I stood there like a mannequin in front of his desk, when suddenly, finally, Galam sheathed his pen in the inkwell and proclaimed: "There!", and handed me the double-leafed parchment. It had grand, bold letters at the title stating "RECLAMATION 4E 356 FIFTYFIRST EXPEDITION NARSIS COUNCIL - HOUSE SADRAS" just as the Council liked it, and below the title; a morass of tiny scripples - probably only legible to aging, dusty clerks, just as the Council liked it.   
"So; this is the big one" I said, mostly to try to tug some conversation out of Galam, but also because I - only with a hint of shame - was as excited as a small child on their name day.   
"How long have you lived in Narsis," the clerk asked cooly, ignoring my question completely.   
"'Long as I can remember."   
"And how long would that be?"   
"I can't remember," I smiled.   
Galam's only response was to slightly raise one eyebrow.   
"And how long have you worked with the Reclaimers?"   
"Some..." I reckoned it in my head. Time seemed to have flown past mind-numbingly fast. Expeditions out, journeys home, preparations for the next expedition... and truth be told I wasn't quite sure how long I'd worked for the Council of Reclamations.   
"... Some six or seven years?" I guessed. That was probably almost correct.   
Galam remained stoic, as if he hadn't actually cared about my answer, any way. "Well if you feel you are up to the task, please sign your name at the bottom of the parchment," he droned, handing me a quill.   
"Ah yes, before I go on the mission, I must of course testify that I'm going on the mission."   
I didn't even get a raised eyebrow this time.   
"You are signing on to be custodian of the expedition resources, and to represent the Council with due dilligence and honor, as defined by the Council," he said, in a voice exhausted with the echoes of the many hundred times he'd said that line before.   
"So I'm signing on that they can throw me in jail if I don't impress them?" I smiled.   
"Yes," Galam answered cooly: "I hope you are prepared for this."   
And indeed I was. Six or seven years as a Reclaimer; I'd been from Tear to Ald Dushaan, and even skirted the edge of Black Marsh. But I admit; I felt trepidation in equal measure to my excitement; I was going across the Inner Sea - to Vvardenfell.   
I signed the document "F.P.N", and Galam ripped off his copy for the records (just as the Council liked), and waved me off with his signature indifference.   
I walked into the yard outside the Council chambers, where a mild breeze alleviated the heat - somewhat. The sun was at its zenith, and even the huge stone tower of the Council Hall didn't afford any shade for the cobbled courtyard. I really began to sweat; but at least now there were no officials to condemn me for it.   
Belas, my sole companion for the expedition (the Council didn't like to 'waste' workforce), was already saddling our guar. I waved the parchment above my head.   
"Everything's in order, now the Council has every excuse to have us jailed if we mess up," I called merrily.   
He sighed audibly. "I know we're not supposed to compare Sadras to Hlaalu, but damn if they aren't equally bad paper pushers."   
"Though Sadras apparently don't cook their books as often."   
"Or maybe they're just better at it," he remarked sourly.   
Belas had accompanied me on my last two missions, and I had found that this sour dunmer had two (and only two) redeeming qualities: he gave you an appreciation of just how much acrid cynicism you could put up with, and he had a thorough knowledge and astonishning intuition for trekking, pathfinding, exploiting or avoiding the elements, and hunting - he was what you called a scout, and a damn good one.   
"So, what's the mission," he asked.   
"You really are the perfect drone, you know? You're given a trio of guar, and a list of provisions and you go about packing for hours on end, without even knowing where you're going."   
"No reason to know until I'm ready to go. But they made me ask for the newer chitin helmets; the ones with the mandible covers and the scarf wraps, so I guess we're going someplace north?"   
"To Vvardenfell."   
"Yeah, sure-" he paused; froze in the middle of tightening a saddle strap: "... You're serious?"   
"I am indeed. We're setting out for Vvardenfell, right away - well, not straight for Vvardenfell," I corrected myself: "We're stopping in Mournhold to catch a caravan to the coast."   
"Puuuojh!" Belas said with exaggeration. "Don't mention that place."   
I failed to suppress a chuckle: "What? Mournhold? What's your issue with it?"   
"I'm allergic to Mournhold, and anything about it."   
I couldn't help but smile. I also couldn't help but ask: "How does this allergy work?"   
"It makes me apathetic," he said sourly. "It's full of dunmer going back and forth. Half for the sake of relief efforts, trying to rebuild that miasmic shit heap, and the other half's pilgrims come either to venerate the place where Saint Almalexia ruled, or to spit on it." He scoffed: "The Reclamations are our guardians now. It's well past time to let the ashes grow cold."   
"Regardless," I said, trying to cycle back towards the actual point: "it's the only place that still launches expeditions to Vvardenfell. The Telvanni are too busy licking their wounds, and Blacklight only launches merchants' vessels, or freight to Solstheim. There's nothing for them on Vvardenfell. So Mournhold it is."   
Belas still looked sour: "I don't see why we have to go to that island," he said, knowing full well why we had to go. "Our own city still half a ruin, but the Council insists we ship people off to Vvardenfell. 'Reclaim our past'; as if there wasn't plenty of 'past' to be reclaimed this side of the sea."   
I shrugged: "Council orders. We just about ready to go?"   
"Aye," he answered, tightening a final saddle strap, as if to accentuate the point.   
As I walked about the guar, finding my own mount, I heard him muttering to himself: "The Mourning Hold... what a shit name." 

  
Belas ensured the feedbags were full, and then signaled me that we were ready. We mounted up on the guar, and gently nudged them towards the courtyard gate.   
"You got everything packed?" I asked, hiding my heading-out anxiety decently well.  
"Yeah, " he said curtly as if say “yeah, I remembered everything, stop worrying.”   
The guar trotted us gently out of Narsis, the throng of dunmer parting before us like a river before a rock - I was always astonished at how "big-city" people did that, wove in and out and around traffic, like one great gelatinous organism. As we rode through the partially restored city gate, the bustle of the city was cleft by the long, drawnout moan of a silt strider somewhere out of sight; like a trumpet sounding the end of the city, and the beginning of the road. And so our journey began.

  
Truth be told I was glad to be setting off immediately. In spite of having lived here all my life Narsis hardly felt like home - in fact I couldn't think of any one place to really consider my 'home' - Of course, it didn't help that my house in Narsis was a miserable one-room hovel along Ruin's Edge (the whole town had been sacked by the Argonians, Ruin's Edge just marked the edge of where the construction work was finished, or the edge of the Council's attention depending on whom you asked). By statute of the Grand Council all Reclaimers must be afforded lodgings freely wherever they go, and may also claim a permanent residence in their 'home city' - the statute did, however, not specify any particular quality of lodgings, and the rundown Narsis hovel signed to my name never felt any more homely than the attic rooms or stable annexes where I usually ended up when travelling.   
I supposed I belonged on the road. Out of nowhere, belonging nowhere, going everywhere. 

  
The way wasn't long and we made fast progress along the well-travelled roads to Mournhold. Belas remained silent for the majority of the trip, and it suited me well, for I was busy dreaming my way far ahead; down the road, over the next hill, across the sea and deep into the wilderness of Vvardenfell.   
I was almost embarressed to admit how little we talked but truly our only communication - if you discount joint smacking of hackle-lo chew - was atop a hill overlooking the Mournhold valley. We even dismounted for a while, letting the beasts nip on the plentiful grass and giving their backs a rest as we stretched our legs. I felt it was a fine view; the Tribunal temple - obscured as it was by the railings and scaffolding of builders - stood proudly in the low grasslands. Belas, of course, wasn't keen on the sight.   
"So... we've got these fine guar, saddled and ready."   
"Yeah ... ?"   
"And we've got provisions to last us straight to Vvardenfell..."   
"... yeah?"   
"Why in Dagon's name are we going to Mournhold, then?"   
"Restoration is still in progress, there's always a shortage of pack- and work animals."   
"So?"   
"Darnim Watch's a shithole. No one there's going to buy a couple of old guar, so we're selling them in Mournhold, and hitching a caravan ride to the coast."   
"Wha-" Belas said indignantly, looking at the guar beside him, as though being allowed to ride it had made it his personal property and companion. "We gotta sell 'em?"   
"Council's orders ... Council's money."   
We were both quiet for a while. He felt sour he couldn't get around going to Mournhold, and I felt sour having to deal with his sourness. Finally, sticking a handful of hackle-lo in his mouth and chewing angrily, he said: "Sometimes I wish Hlaalu was still in charge. Now they had money to throw around."   
But Belas was nothing if not dutiful, and so, after lunching on wickwheat bread, we saddled up once more and joined the stream of dunmer trotting and shuffling down the road.   
In my mind, I always likened Mournhold to a heart; the roads like veins; with unending traffic of merchants, builders, and pilgrims undulating to and fro. The old capital too, it was. The heart of Morrowind. The thought had barely formed in my mind before I scoffed at it; a withered heart it was. True; it was busy. But upon the road it seemed half the visitors were pilgrims, there to venerate the old ruins; to pay tribute to a faded memory. The other half was builders and traders; come to restore the city to 'its former glory'.   
I looked upon the city; its spires wrapt in precarius scafolding, it's walls patched with drooping mortar and riddled with holes; the spires of the Grand Temple, forever immortalised in paintings and engravings; gone. The city was a shadow.   
It took me a little while to shake myself out of this depressive thought spiral. I was afraid Belas was beginning to rub off on me. The thought made me shudder.   
I put the spurs to my guar and sped on down the hill towards the city, with my sour companion right behind me. 

  
At the gates of Mournhold the trafic ground to a halt as too small a detachment of Ordinators tried to categorize and direct the incoming waves of travellers - pilgrims to the pilgrims' hostel, builders to wherever they were going. We puzzled a guard greatly by declaring that we were neither builders nor headed for the pilgrim's hostel. We puzzled him even more by how we laughed after leaving him, enjoying pathetically that our prejucided predictions were correct. Mentioning that we wished to sell the guar, we were eventually redirected to the Grand Bazaar which was entered through another even more encumbered city gate.   
For all our cynicism we were both taken aback by the Grand Bazaar. It truly was by all means; grand. In the days of Almalexia the Bazaar had been confined to a small quadrant of the inner city, but now the bazaar had turned into a sprawling chaos that took up the space of a small city by itself - we walked straight into it from the gate. With the constant influx of workers and materials had come the inevitable drizzle of services, a drizzle which had quickly taken life of its own and turned into a flood - peddlers, paupers, chefs, cleaners, clerks and Councilmen come to make their fortune and garner influence, Ordinators and thieves, priests and whores, people of all walks of life found something to do in Mournhold; even mercenaries - bereft of guildsmanship - found places to set up shop within the Grand Bazaar. The clangor of the bazaar both deafened and amazed me.   
I'd like to say that this grand feeling lasted forever and that I left the city with nothing but happy memories. I didn't. For all this amazement lasted but a moment and then the smell hit us, and I was reminded just how many workers had to eat here every day, and how very diminished the city's sewers still were, and just how blisteringly hot Mournhold was.   
"It smells like someone fucked a dead guar!" Belas moaned.   
I wasn't sure how he came to that conclusion, but I agreed.   
"Let's sell these beasts and get out of here," I suggested, and we pulled our guar into the churning crowd of people. 

  
Selling the guar was easy - although Belas refused an otherwisely good deal because he didn't want to sell the guar to a butcher's shop, but there were plenty of people in need of strong-backed animals. So we ended up selling them to a stonemason and left the bazaar some seventy velens richer. Though of course - as Belas insistently kept reminding me (and himself) - that money wasn't ours to spend - it belonged to the Council, as the guar, as our provisions, as our backpacks and travel cloaks, even as the swords we carried for self defense.   
The Plaza Brindisi Dorom was the pulsing heart of the city. Here lay the Pilgrim's Hostel, graciously maintained by House Indoril, with its steady stream of dunmer flowing in and out. The towering statue of the Reclamations - not a monument to our profession, regrettably - shadowed a strip of the square. The shadows of Azura, Boethiah, and Mephala made the plaza look like a huge sundial. A temporary temple had also been erected - a structure not entirely without grace, but still rather shabby for my liking. However, it had to serve, as the olden Tribunal temple was still in the midst of being 'refurbished,' as it had been for decades.   
"That thing's an eyesore," Belas said pointing at the temporary temple: "It's shameful."   
"It's not that bad," I said, without conviction. A thought occured to me then.   
"You've worked with the priests of the Reclamations, haven't you? - you know why it's taking so damn long to convert the old Tribunal Temple?"   
"Enchantments - Almalexia was a jealous bitch; she actually cursed to place to prevent worship of other deities - daedra in particular."   
I frowned a bit. I was never very religious myself, but calling a saint "bitch" seemed wrong still. But perhaps it was better not to take it up with Belas - he clearly had little patience for the Old Temple and its ways.

  
Our plans called for us to meet up with the caravan to Darnim's Watch at evenfall (which was the best time to make way out of the city), and we still had much time to kill. Belas, citing his allergy, refused to go exploring Mournhold in the meantime, however. And, I cannot say whether it was a pang of sympathy, fear of loneliness, or something else entirely, I decided to wait along with him, sitting atop our numerous backpacks 'neath the shade of the Reclaimations until the mass of dunmer thinned about us, the city slowly fading to sleep.   
The caravaners we were to join picked us up there from the plaza; a grand procession it was, I lost count somewhere along the way, but I did see at least thirty guar. They were all going to Darnim's Watch to buy sulfur from the diggers there. In my time of travelling I'd grown relatively competent in several fields, but the use of smelly, brittle, volcanic rock? I'll leave it to alchemists and mages to answer that.   
The merchants were running a tight ship as it were, and couldn't afford riding-primed guar, so the road to Darnim's Watch was travelled on foot, nursing the reins of packguar along dirt roads for two days straight - stopping only briefly, for when profits were at stake, even the laziest merchant became fleet footed.   
I thought Belas would complain about travelling on foot, but he remained silent for the entire trip, walking - and I still disbelieve it - gaily. For all his sourness, it seemed he really was quite glad to just be out of Mournhold. 

  
* 

  
Darnim's Watch was an unextraordinary port settlement on the coast of the Inner Sea. I could describe it at length, but I'll summize by saying that the city's most famous achivement was being ransacked several times in the Second Era. It used to be managed by House Indoril - and still was, officially - but their weakened House could barely be bothered, and since the trading with Vvardenfell died out, everyone worked with House Redoran instead.   
We were en route, looking towards the city, in a rare stretch of flat land in between the volcanic crags, when I caught a whiff of acrid smoke, and almost gagged. "Smells like-"   
"Rotten eggs," Belas finished. "That's the sulfur, it comes up out of the earth through the geysers."   
I was rather impressed with his ready answer, but, somehow, I didn't want to let it show. "Why's sulfur smell like rotten eggs, then?"   
He chewed his hackle-lo for a few moments, thinking, and then spat copiously. "Probably more that bad eggs smell like sulfur, but I have absolutely no idea why."   
We rode on in silence, covering our mouths with scarfs as the occassional gust of sulphuric egg drifted across our path. Our travelling companions didn't seem to mind. Grown used to the stink, I guessed. You could learn to live with a lot of things as long as you made a living - even in a city like Darnim's Watch, so long past its time of greatness, like so much of the nation.   
But here we were, any way. We filed into the city through its only gate. When compared to Mournhold, Darnim's Watch seemed almost deserted. Apart from ourselves and our company, only a few sulfur farmers and guar herders drifted through the gate - we weren't even checked by a guard; Indoril's limited resources were dedicated to temple cities, and Darnim's Watch didn't have a temple.   
It did, however, have a corner club. And our little caravan, tired and dirtied by dust and sweat, drifted towards it wordlessly, naturally - like fish to an angler light. 

  
I have a favourite drink although for the life of me I can't remember what it is. It was picked out for me by someone else, at a drunken gathering. The most delicious liquid to ever grace my lips, and I never managed to remember its name.   
All the corner clubs served the same; sujamma, shein, mazte, flin, and (in more distinguished ones) imported grape wines or brandies. Fruitlessly I had searched for another taste of that forgotten drink, but to no avail. For all I know it might have been a local batch of sujamma, that just happened to surpass all other sujamma in existence - regardless, I was left with a mediocre half pint of sujamma, and to mediocre company of my tired companion - who was nursing a full pint of sujamma.   
"And I thought Mournhold was rotten," he muttered under his breath. I silently agreed. I'd heard stories of how dunmer lived in the Grey Quarter of Windhelm, back in the 200's, and although I'd never been there, I imagined their corner club must've looked much like this one. The painting on the panels (the ones that had been painted to begin with, at least) was peeling heavily, and the floor itself was pernicious; full of deep spurs and splinters. A fireplace had never been installed (forgiveable, I think, because the city was only a few hundred yards away from active volcanism), and so the whole room was only dimly lit by a series of runny candles.   
"Let's just drink up and go to bed," Belas suggested, taking a large gulp of sujamma to get a head start.   
I liked to write a journal at times, measuring out my adventures in my head (though I always forgot to date them). But ultimately, I didn't feel like there would be much to write of this place, so I silently agreed by raising my tankard. We bid the sulphur merchants goodbye and farewell (they were already deep in their cups and barely noticed) and retired to our dingy little attic rooms (gracioulsy offered to us Reclaimers, free of charge).   
Our ship would head out tomorrow, for Vvardenfell. I took a long time to fall asleep. And it seemed my eyes had only just closed, before I opened them again and let in the dawn. 

  
* 

  
The ship we boarded looked like a repurposed fisherman's vessel - and indeed, smelled like one. It's crew was a single, taciturn and weatherbeaten Nord who, though I knew it was impossible, gave the distinct impression of having been there since the First Invasion, having been too stubborn to leave.   
Though the boat had long since been emptied, the stink of fish still permeated every fibre of wood - I imagined Belas would want to complain, so I made sure to quickly take a seat in the boat’s rear, and tugged myself deep into my travel cloak.  
After an hour of sailing I finally saw it - peeking through the haze of the distance. At first merely a low shoreline, inscrutable in the distance, but soon it ascended into towering mountains, and as we drew closer to Vvardenfell I could even see that great, black spire; Red Mountain lurking in the distance; a pillar of smoke rising from it steadily, ominously.   
I couldn't take my eyes off it. 

  
As we drew closer, the horizon separated into several slivers of land; a mass of islands, barren patches of rock, that rose defiantly from the waves. Our captain (a gracious title for this wrinkled Nord) guided the ship steadily through the maze of rivulets, canals, and rocks. He'd done this many, many times before, ferrying eager dunmer across the Inner Sea I thought, wondering how many he never ferried back.   
The boat made a jarring sound as it glided onto a peppled beach, and we jumped into the shallow water, and pulled it onto the shore, soundlessly but for the grunting of our efforts. The whole place was quiet.   
We wordlessly unloaded our gear; backpacks, rolled up tents and mats, sacks of provision, waterskins, our swords (carefully tucked away in rolls of guarskin), and navigation equipment. After wordlessly getting back onto the boat, the Nord wordlessly guided his boat back into the sea, and drifted away silently.   
"Not the most talkative type, eh?" Belas said, as we looked at the little boat fading into the distance.   
"No," I answered, though I knew it was retorical.   
We stood there for several long minutes. The silence ringing in our ears.   
"We're really here," I said, reverently. 

  
"Far as I can tell, we're on the eastern edge of the Molag Amur region, nothing but barrens for miles around. We go far north we'll make it to the Grazelands, but we'd have to go damnably far to find tombs or shrines up thereabouts; they only built by the coast."   
Belas said this while scanning the horizon carefully, his scabbed hand sheltering his eyes from the midday sun. He sounded confident, focused, even content. He was a pain to be around when we weren't on a mission, but here, now, all the cynicism and nagging died away, and he became simply a pathfinder, an expert. I wondered if it was simply boredom that got to him; that he might be one of those rare people that really can't stay in one place. Then again, neither could I.   
I said nothing; I knew I’d have to eventually, but I felt trepidation. He continued unabated:  
"We go east, there's the Ascadian Isle. Lots of ancestral tombs, lots of daedric shrines. Probably all destroyed, being so close to the impact" - he always said 'the impact' never 'Vivec' - "The only place they managed to uncover was Zaintiaris, and they only recognized it because some bit of a Sheogorath statue was found in the rubble."   
I took a deep breath.   
"The Madstar and his shrines don't interest us much. Daedric shrines aren't the real goal of this mission."   
"No?" he raised an eyebrow. He didn't even sound annoyed, just intrigued. "Some noble funded us to look for an ancestral tomb instead?"   
"No. We have to go north. Northwest." I was still beating about the bush. What was making me do this? As if I was going for suspense; dodging the answer.   
"Nothing but ashlands northwest of here."   
"And Red Mountain," I said - still dodging.   
"Why the fuck you want to go to Red Mountain?"   
I took another deep breath.   
"Because that's our mission. Investigate the dwemer ruins there; the fortresses of the Sixth House. We uncover shrines of the Reclaimations along the way, there's a bonus, but the Council wants us to trace the history of the Tribunal Saints and Dagoth Ur. We're delving to the centre of Red Mountain; that's the mission."   
Belas fell silent. For a long moment of anxiety I thought he was thinking about declining; about going home and leaving the duties of reclamation. Then it occured to me he was just considering the logistics.   
"By legend there are twohundred-thousand paces between Molag Mar and the Ghostgate, and we're not even in Molag Mar, and we're going further than the Ghostgate. The provisions are gonna run out long before we reach Red Mountain; but as long as we're in the ashlands we should be able to find kvama foragers - tastes like powdery shit, but they're nutricious. When we get closer to the volcano, I doubt we'll find anything better than shalk, anything else would've died or fled from the cataclysm. Shalk're edible, once you crack open the shell - well, edible if you can keep them down - but I doubt we'll find many. We're gonna go hungry some nights. But it should be doable."   
In this moment, I felt he was the finest friend a person could ever ask for. 

  
*

I had known ashlands before - in Stonefalls, on the eastern fringe among the Telvanni - but never quite as acrid as these. Stark spires of rock rose from every corner of the deep foyadas; the sharp smell of sulfur billowed from bubbling pools of lava, and the wind howled through every crevice. It wasn't this bad at first though. When we first set off from the coast the land was ashen, but not barren. Staunch trama roots poked out from the rocks, and fire ferns grew lush in the nutritious soil. We even managed to dig out a few stray ash yams which, Belas suggested, must have grown from windborne seedlings from the Ascadian Isle, now that there were no longer any dunmer to harvest from the fields there.  
But as we crawled higher into the mountains of the Molag Amur region plant life faded almost entirely, and the ashen plains of rock were interrupted only by stringy grass and small streams of water running thick with sulfur.  
We walked all day, under a merciless sun, and camped at night, a fleeting fire of trama roots our only defense against the cold - occasionally, when cold got the better of our wits, we'd camp next to a volcanic pit, ignoring the noxious fumes in our desperate search for heat.  
But the storms were the worst. I'd known storms at sea that tossed around ships like ragdolls; I'd known thunderstorms that lit up the darkest night with a hundred flashes of lightning, and I'd felt wind that knocked down trees. But the ash storms of Vvardenfell were the worst. The wind howled through the foyadas like some raging beast and the ash, too light and too fine to bounce off your armor like rain, got in everywhere. It lodged itself in the layers of our chitin, it was nestled in the rim of our goggles, and specks of the fine powder even managed to penetrate our mouthscarves, and we inhaled it, causing a searingly dry sensation all the way down your throat. Mostly we could press on through them. The Council had, amazingly, not skimped on the ashland equipment, and many layers of chitin, interspersed with tightly woven cloth, caught most of the ash, and our goggles were set into the helmets themselves, exposing no skin.  
But sometimes, there was nothing to do but pitch tent and hunker down. And so we'd lie for hours sometimes, hudlled underneath the canvas, fighting desperately to not let the wind carry it off. And when the storm finally died down, we had to dig out way out from the ash.

  
Ten days after our landing, I had grown so sick of kwama foragers, that I was looking forward to trying Shalk, if only for a change.  
I started missing forager meat very fast.  
The first night we ate shalk, having long since abandoned the ranges of kwama, Belas sat before our tiny fire, and laboriously split open the shell of the shalk we'd caught. He looked at me, smiling a little, and asked: "D'know shalk have no natural predators?"  
I confessed I didn't know that.  
"And do you know why?" he asked, still smiling oddly.  
I didn't know, but I ventured to guess their carapace was too thick for most creatures.   
"No, not the carapace," he said. "But you're about to find out why."  
Shalk, once you manage to crack the carapace and pull them open, have a consistency much like crab - thin, fibrous flesh that comes apart almost of itself. But shalk have none of the moist succulence of crab, and, due to some inexplicable twist of nature, taste so bitterly that just smelling the meat prompts a gag reflex.  
That first night I threw up every string of shalk meat I'd eaten. The second night I managed to keep down half of it.  
The final provisions ran out on the thirtieth day, and I learned to keep down all the shalk we could find.

  
On the fortyfirst day after our landing on Vvardenfell, we reached the Ghostgate - or rather; we reached what had once been the Ghostgate.  
After the Nerevarine had defeated Dagoth Ur at Red Mountain, the Ghostgate had fallen into neglect and disrepair. Of course, the occasional pilgrim still visisted to pay their respect, or the rare treasure hunter passed through to seek glory and loot hunting through the old dwemer ruins. But when Red Mountain erupted, the Ghostgate had fallen under a hailstrom of molten rock, and only the Tower of Dusk now stood; blackened and worn, amidst the ruins.  
We made our way through the rubble - grown quite cold and still now, blanketed by a thick layer of ash. As I gingerly stepped over the rubble, watching the tiny plumes of ash that rose with my steps, I was quite surprised to find Belas kneeling amidst the debris, offering a quiet prayer. I let him finish, partly out of respect, and partly because I was stunned. When he rose, I couldn't help but jest: "Grown more religious since Mournhold, eh? I thought you wanted to let the past die, or what was it you said?"  
"I was offering my respects to Saint Nerevar, not the Tribunal," he grunted. "It was here that Nerevar began the conquest against Dagoth Ur. If not for the actions of the Nerevarine, every Ash Storm we've waded through here would've been laden with Blight diseases. I rather appreciate that they weren't."  
I conceded that it was a good point, and we trudged on in silence. Him showing honest reverence and gratefulness took me by surprise. But I suppose it was nice knowing there were other facets to his character than bitterness.  
For me the Ghostgate, and the dormant Ghostfence which stretched out around it, many parts still intact, was a source of dread. To think that once this bulwark had been all that stood between Vvardenfell and the horrors of Red Mountain. But I forced myself not to slow my step; and so we forged onwards... climbing steadily towards Red Mountain.  
We trudged on in solemn silence for several hours. The sun settled behind the precipituous walls of the foyada and the wind began to pick up speed, howling down the slopes of the great volcano. Motes of ash began to stir from the ground, and caught in the resin between the plates of our chitin equipment. An ash storm was brewing.  
"This one might not be so bad," Belas called to me. "But this close to the mountain the storms are infamously fierce. I don't dare risk it."  
I eagerly nodded my agreement, and we pitched camp for the night, nestling our thick canvas tent between a pair of towering boulders. By the time we had it secured, the wind was shrieking like a cliff racer through the canyons, and I was gripped by the usual fear that our tent might be carried off in the night. But we got inside, and hunkered down underneath the flailing canvas.  
"Now that we're almost at Red Mountain..." Belas opened.  
"Yes?"  
"Which citadels are we investing in particular? They're all relatively close, but if we're going further north, we'll have to plan accordingly."  
I considered for a moment, recalling my discussions with the council back on the Mainland: "By all accounts Vemynal and Kogoruhn are lost; buried during the Red Year. But then there's Odrosal, Endusal, Tureynudal... and Dagoth Ur."  
He gave me an inscrutable look as I said it; fear, anticipation, or something third. Admittedly I wasn't sure how to feel about it myself. The very name Dagoth Ur usually sent a shiver through the whole of Morrowind, and I feared to explore those dread halls. But nevertheless my own excitement was growing. We were delving into the very heart of Morrowind's history.  
"Well my vote is for going to Dagoth Ur. It's the straighest path from here and..." - he hesitated - "And I don't want it looming over me for the rest of the expedition," he said defiantly, almost daring me to call him a coward. I didn't.  
"Dagoth Ur it is then," I agreed and rolled over on my side. I did not fall asleep for a long time.

  
It was another two days before we reached Dagoth Ur. The going was tough. The slope of the Red Mountain was half solidified lava, and half loose powdery ash that had settled since the last storm. Belas and I often slipped and stumbled up the steep incline, and we took to keeping our scarf wraps fastened even in mild weather, to avoid swallowing mouthfuls of ash as we stirred the light ground layer.  
As we scaled the peak of the mountain the temperature rose steadily, despite the burgeoning wind. When we reached the apex, and climbed over the ridgeline of dried magma, the heat hit me like a physical blow. Colossal clouds of acrid smoke billowed forth from the volcanic crater, churning a thousand yard column of ashes into the sky.   
"How in Oblivion are we going to get inside?" Belas yelled. It only occured to me then how very loud it was. A deep rumble was thundering in the earth beneath us, and emerged as a fiery roar from the mouth of the volcano. I looked into the fiery pit searching for any sign of the ruins. A sunken tower stood dangerously tilted over the pit of lava, and looked about to fall any momement. I knew this had once been one of the great dwemer facilities in Tamriel, but now, since the Red Year, it had been all but scoured from the face of Tamriel. But as I squinted, by instinct alone for my goggles kept out the smoke, I saw an opening in the cliffside; a small, bronze-coloured awning ravaged by soot and fire, but intact nonetheless. I pointed to it.  
"Those dwemer sure knew how to build for the ages," Belas managed to mumble through the thickwoven cloth of the scarf.   
I barely heard him over the roaring gale which churned constantly in this pit atop the mountain, but I nodded my agreement. From the first era to the last, Red Mountain had been the centre of legend; seat of power, home of a race now gone, and catalyst of disaster. And through it all these dwemer citadels had stood, blemismed but unbroken.  
And yet, no sense of connection to history filled me, I experienced no grand conjunction of past and present even though I felt I should. These ruins were the home of the dead and the despised, and I felt that no truly living thing must ever have made its home here, and for a fleeting moment I thought that this must all be a stage, set for me to explore and to disappear in another moment should my interest fade. But only for a moment, and then I shook my head, and trudged-slid-stumbled down the slobe towards the heart of Red Mountain.  
We skirted down to the floor of the crater, keeping a healthy distance between ourselves and the great pit of magma which burned furiously at the very centre. Edging our way along the walls of the crater, we reached the brass enclave which marked the entrace. A spherical stone cover had sheltered the door from the worst of the eruption, but it was cracked and brittle, and we set about tearing it apart, kicking and pummeling it with the blunt of our swords, as the ancient stone gave away and revealed a brass portal underneath. After one single, quiet look at oneanother and a sigh of awe and anticipation, I reached for the handle and pulled on the door. It slid open smoothly, as though the dwemer had oiled it but yesterday.

*

  
We stepped into a tunnel, its stone walls cracked with the force of recent eruptions and its floor tiled with brass metal. Immunerable pipes, some still intact, others hissing steam, lined the walls on either side. Belas pulled close the door behind us, shutting out the roar of the gale and the pit of fire, and we found ourselves in pitch blackness. Whatever powered the dwemer lamps (which had always been much beyond any of Tamriels other races) must've been knocked out by an earthquake, and the tunnel remained quite dark, so, fumbling in the darkness, we carefully soaked a few rags in oil, and lit a couple of torches. The light only illuminated a small way ahead., beyond that an impenetrable darkness reigned. I found the courage to put one foot in front of the other, and so began walking deeper into the citadel of Dagoth Ur.  
We walked through the dark, unvarying corridors, only occasionally interrupted by large, square rooms where an open pit of magma dominated the centre, presumably created for heating, or for some austere purpose, known only to the dwemer. Whenever we came across one of these, we hugged the walls of the room, edging around to the other side and the next corridor, knowning that a single misstep would mean a horrible death. We moved ever onwards through corridors that seemed ever identical, but always downwards - deeper into the bowels of the mountain.  
Eventually Belas grew bored (or anxious) enough that he felt the need to make conversation.  
"Why's the citadel called Dagoth Ur?" he asked, indifferently.  
"We don't know what the dwemer called it originally; Dagoth Ur just named it after himself."  
"Not the modest type, eh?"  
"The insane demigod who tried to seize all Morrowind by turning people into blighted zombies? Yeah, no, I don't think he was the modest type", I answered pedantically.   
His sarcastic remarks really could feel rather bland at times - I felt the need to apologize for his behaviour, though there was no one else there. After that, he was quiet for a while, and we edged our way further down through the mountain.  
I quickly lost track of time; every hallway looked the same, and not a hint of natural light penetrated these buried halls. There was nothing but the constant low rumble of the mountain.  
I was about to suggest we take a break, when, at the bottom of a long flight of stairs, we came upon a door. A great circle of brass, engraved with worn carvings. And somehow, though none of us suggested it, we both stopped immediately. The door filled the entirety of the hallway, and while we both stood staring at it, it seemed to fill the entire world. A more reasonable part of my mind might've felt a fool for thinking it, but in that moment I felt its portent, and Belas did too, I'm sure. We both edged forward uneasily, and then came another abrupt halt, for beyond the rumble of the mountain was another sound; a chorous of whispers exuding from beyond the door.

  
I was frozen, straining my ears to hear those soft whispers, trying to work out what they were saying, and dreading it all the while. Belas mustered more courage than I had managed in a lifetime, and strode forward with quick strides, and pulled open the door.  
Beyond it was a cavern, small and unadorned. I followed my companion, who tip-toed into the room, as though afraid of being discovered by something. As we entered, the whispering intensified. It was a soft singing - not in any recognizable words or meanings, but a soft chorous of murmerous whispers that filled the air, like the rustle of wind before a storm. It was impossible to locate their origin; they simply filled the cavernous vault as though part of the very air we breathed.  
Almost imperceptably; Belas was shaking beside me: "This place... It's not right, it feels ... unclean."  
I agreed, though I failed to find the words to say so. All the scholars agreed that The Blight had disappeared along with Dagoth Ur, and there hadn't been a reported case for hundreds of years, but still; breathing the stale atmosphere with the sound of that infernal, murmuring chorous, I felt crippled and nauseated with fear.  
"We-" I stammered and struggled to form the words. "We must be near the bottom. We should look for..." I didn't finish, for at that moment the light of our torches caught in a hint of brass; another door.  
It was as large as the one before, but it was cracked. And as I edged closer, pearls of sweat trickling down my brow, the sound of the mountain again drowned out the whispers. It was coming from beyond a crack in the door, and a wave of heat assaulted me from the other side. I retreated a few steps.  
"The---" I pointed meekly. "There," I managed. "There beyond that door; there must be an open pit of magma. It must be where the Akulakhan was built..."  
Belas stood well behind me, and spoke as firmly as he could manage: "The door is cracked, I don't reckon we can open it."  
I looked at the broken metal; it looked perfectly openable.  
"There's nothing we can do to get in there, we'll have to leave it," Belas repeated firmly.  
I nodded.  
A drop of sweat falling off my nose woke me from my stupor, and I turned around with effort, leaving the door behind me. I began to look about the cave we found ourselves in. The whispering was still incessant. We both walked about carefully, letting the light of our torches flow over the rough stones; lighting the ancient darkness. Eventually the light of my torch found a small altar, a raised platform engraved with immunerable, worn, reddish patterns. With a shudder I realized this must once have been some altar of the Sixth House, raised when the ash poets roamed these halls. But it had been defaced; all the ancient markings had been chipped and ground away, but in the middle of the platform lay a small reddish crystal in the shape of a heart.   
I could almost hear Belas's eyes widening behind me: "Is that-"  
"No," I snapped, before he had time to make the suggestion. "It's not even really a heart, see?"  
Emboldened by the sound of my own voice, I grasped the object, and held it up for him to look closer. The edges of the thing were too perfect; upon closer inspection it didn't look organic at all, it was made of tiny cubicle shapes, like a lump of fool's gold. Indeed, when the light caught just right, it looked more gold than red... or like brass perhaps.  
I turned it over in my hands, running my fingers along it's impeccable surfaces, staring into its transparent depths, and then a strange glow sparked from within the crystal. And it grew brighter. We both stood mesmerized, unable to speak and unable to take our eyes off the crystal as that deep, reddish glow brightened and grew, until the whole thing was shining with amber glow, illuminating the cavernous ceiling.  
And from it came a voice; a velvety firmness of a voice. It said simply - the most revoltingly unsatisfactory thing I ever heard - it whispered: "A.S."   
And then its glow faded back into the depths.

  
We both stood dumbstruck for several long seconds that stretched on like years, straining our ears in the silence as though listening for the echo of what the crystal had said. 'A.S.'  
Belas was the first of us to shake off the stupor: "Any idea what that could mean? A.S.?"  
My mind raced through a million possibilities, all seeming equally likely or unlikely. I was simply, bluntly clueless.  
"I haven't the slightest idea," I admitted.  
And then another heavy silence fell upon us, as we both silently contemplated the strangeness of this peculiar gem. But then something shook us both from our reverie, as the incessant whispering returned. Neither of us had noticed how it had faded to nothing - we'd been so focused on the gem - but now they returned, and seemed even louder than before. They filled my head like the buzzing of fetcherflies; incomprehensible, but unmistakably malicious. Belas called to me, his voice louder than it ought to have been, as though he was trying to drown out the whispers, or his own fear perhaps: "Let's get out of this cursed place!"  
I agreed in a heartbeat, and we both made for the exit. It was only some strange demand of dignity, that kept us from breaking into a headlong run. And as we marched to the exit, the most childishly terrifying idea filled me, that if I were to look back I would see a shambling grotesque, a corprus monster reaching out after me with its fleshly deformities. My neck ached as I forced myself not to look back. When we emerged into the dwemer hallways, which now seemed so civilized and immaculate in comparison, the whispers were already fading, and soon we slowed down, our fear subsiding. We both stopped to catch our breath. Though we hadn't even been running, we were both sweating heavily beneath our chitin.  
"If the Council ever sends me to Vvardenfell again, I'll plainly refuse. Throw me in the dungeons 'neath Narsis if they please. I ain't going near anything 'Sixth House' again."  
I finally allowed myself a look back. Nothing but darkness behind us; an empty hallway. I breathed deeply, and turned away from those grim shadows, and set for the exit, Belas eagerly following behind me.  
Though we were both tired to the bone, neither of us dared spend the night within those ancient halls, ash storm or no. And so we made our way back through the darkened hallways up to the surface, having silently agreed that we had explored all we wished to explore of Dagoth Ur's citadel. The trip back to the surface seemed much faster than the journey down (probably because we were no longer worn down by reluctance) and we soon found ourselves back at the entrance, where the brass gate was still closed shut, impervious to the rage of the storm without. We braced ourselves, and pushed open the door to meet the howling wind. Outside, the ashstorm was churning as violently as ever and we forced our way through it, arms held up before our eyes as the wind lashed at our chitin. We made our way to the top of the crater, and then we tripped and slipped our way through the loose layer of pebbles and ash that covered the side of the volcano, eventually reaching level ground. The heat had long since dissipated, but still the murmurous rumble and the ash-darkened sky followed us as we walked on in the shadow of the Red Mountain.  
We continued on in silence for a while, stubbornly refusing to give in to fatigue before we had put as much distance as possible between ourselves and those terrible, barren halls.   
Finally though, after what felt like hours of plodding through the ash storm, we finally settled down, and pitched our tent for the night and curled up underneath the rattling tarpaulin, and we both fell into a troubled sleep.

  
When we woke the next morning, the storm had finally let up, and we forced open the tent cover and unearthed ourselves from the ash cover which had settled through the night.  
We ate a meagre breakfast - one last ration of pickled marshmerrow that Belas had hidden for such a time, for nothing lived there in those ash wastes - and packed up our tent in solemn silence, nerves still shaken. However, we hadn't walked for long, before Belas took up conversation again, apparelently unable keep silent.  
"That thing we found in Dagoth Ur... I haven't a clue what it is, but I'm sure the Council will be interested" - he hesitated - "Probably interested enough that they won't mind us not doing the full sweep of every citadel."  
"That fear or laziness talking?" I taunted.  
"Both."   
"Fair enough," I smiled for the first time in several days. "We'll swing by the coast, around Vivec, check out the old daedric shrine sites. If we can pick up some relic or other belonging to the Reclamations, the Council'll be ecstatic. They might even send a proper expedition up here next."  
"'Long as they don't include me in it," Belas said, as he spat a glob of ash aside. "I believe I've had enough of this business. I'm thinking of retiring."  
"Retiring? You?" I asked indredulously. "A scout that hangs it up? What do you plan on doing?"  
"I'll figure something out," he shrugged. "But this;" he waved a hand about as if to say exploration in general - "ruins, ash storms and demons, going hungry every other night... That's all well and good for adventurous types like you, but me... I was born in Narsis, and I bloody well plan on dying there."  
"In your own bed?" I suggested, teasing.  
"Aye," he answered, unabashed. "And I'll return to the ash with my ancestors. I don't plan on being cut down by bandits, or ending up like kagouti dung in the middle of nowhere. I reckon this'll be my last reclamation."  
"Fair," I said, though this made me a little melancholy. Though I could see the sense in it; settling down, falling asleep in my own bed every night... I knew that would truly be the death of me, for there was only so much you could do, managing a house and the daily toil for food. It seemed to me the world was meant to be explored, and I planned on doing it till it killed me.

  
The next few days we steadily picked up pace and mood. We followed a foyada south, towards the coast, travelling swiftly with a soft wind at our backs. The ash storms had died down, almost as if land was now content to let off, seeing us leave. It was three nights before we took the first step into the soft, muddy grass of the Ascadian isles (now thick with forest, for there were no one left to chop it down for agriculture). Animal life began to flourish around us. We picked fresh marshmerrow by the bushel, and Belas even managed to take down a wayward netch calf, and we feasted till our stomachs were like to burst - and still we didn't eat half the thing, so we left the rest to the Nix Hounds, and set up camp a good distance away from the smelly carcass.  
Every day Belas became more talkative, thinking aloud of all the things he might give himself to doing once we had returned to Narsis. Carpenter, mason, smith... in general, just variations on theme of staying in Narsis and building things. One afternoon, however, his daydreaming was cut short, for we happened upon the ruins of a daedric shrine.  
The early chimer architecture was so otherwordly and wierd that, although I had seen it many times before and it had begun to win back popularity among the Temple of Reclamations, I was still as astounded by it now as I had been the first time I laid eyes on such a shrine. Twisted spires and impossible archways, portals that led into backwards hallways and blind corners. Of course, much of it was reduced to rubble now. It was clear that the last eruption of Red Mountain had laid a terrible siege to this place. Whether by raining debris, quakes, or both, I couldn't tell, but many of the spires had fallen and somewhere small ravines had opened where the roof had collapsed into the shrine below.  
We surveyed the ruins from a small hillock. The shrine was situated on the very edge of the water, before the Ascadian isle gave way to a myraid broken islets that finally thinned out towards the sea. One of the spires had fallen over and been swallowed by the water, but nevertheless I could still see the shrine's main doorway, unbroken by the ravages of time and seismic upheaval.   
"So which one do you think this is?" I asked Belas.  
He squinted at the ruins for some time, as though expecting to find the name written across the stone. Of course, I knew he was really dreaming up a mental map of Vvardenfell, and correlating it with out last few days of travel.  
"Well, we passed lake Masobi yesterday, and I'm fairly certain we've been heading steadily south. We're certainly not at Bal Fell, for we know that one's completely sunken into the sea." He chewed his lip for a moment. "Haven't a clue."  
"Right, let's have a look then," I said cheerily, for somehow a broken old daedric shrine seemed harmless, when I thought back to the howling winds and the dark halls of the Sixth House that we faced atop Red Mountain.

*

  
The door took a while to pry open, apparently jammed thoroughly shut when the walls had shifted during a quake. After half an hour of effort, we finally managed to loosen it, and a thick sheet of dust met us as it swung open. Coughing heavily, for we had long since removed our ashscarves, we lit our torches, and made our way into the ruins.  
We soon found that the torches were quite unneccesary, for the walls were covered in a soft, yet constant red glow stemming from the daedric runes which lined the walls. We made our way through those twisted halls lined by strange glyphs and markings, down steep staircases until we emerged into a grand chamber, its ceiling so high above that it was shrouded in darkness. Most of the floor was covered in rubble; in some places cyclopean blocks of dark stone, the size of a small trading caravan had fallen from the ceiling, and we had to weave our way around them, constantly tripping over smaller bricks on the floor, because we couldn't keep ourselves from constantly looking up at the ceiling in worry.  
"I have a lot of respect for Saint Veloth," Belas whispered nervously: "But he could've picked a more stable island to settle."  
I giggled, partly from nervousity, and partly because it truly did seem strange to build your nation around an active volcano. But then, the dunmer had always been shaped by hardship.  
We came eventually to the centre of the chamber where a great statue, miracuously unfelled by the collapsed ceiling, stood shadowing over us. It resembled a great, brutish-looking humanoid, with a mighty axe held above its head in two powerful arms.  
"So which one do you think this is? Malacath?" I suggested.  
"No, Dagon," Belas answered, kicking a piece of rubble towards me. It seemed to be an arm, and, looking closer, I could see where it had fallen off the side of the statue. The fourth one was undoubtedly lying in the rubble somewhere. I looked around for it, not because it was of any interest to us; Dagon was 'Corner' and the Council would have no interest in his statue, or any part of it, but simply because I was curious. Instead, my eyes fell upon the foundation of the altar, because nestled between the feet of the statue lay a small brass-red crystal of immaculately smooth surfaces.   
I could only stammer weakly for a few moments, but finally managed to jank on Belas's shoulder, and pointed him to look at the gemstone. He fell as silent as me.  
Barely feeling in control of my actions, I approached the shrine, and kneeled to touch the gem. Once again that otherworldly glow sprang forth from its depths, and illuminated the room. And once more, that strange velvety voice filled the room.   
"C.T." it whispered, and faded once more to silence.  
Somehow neither of us was less dumbstruck than the first time, and it was a long time before either of us spoke.  
"I reckon we should take this back to the Council," Belas suggested.   
I could only nod. 'A.S.', 'C.T.' - what did they mean? There was no doubt about their connection; this gem was of the same make as the previous... and yet...  
I slung my backback onto the floor, and extracted the first crystal from it. Correct, they were slightly different. One offered a slight inwards curve on one surface, and the other bulged outwards ever so slightly. I gently touched them together, and they slid into a perfect fit.   
I could almost hear Belas's jaw dropping behind me, but I don't believe either of us were really surprised any more, the connection now seemed so obvious and natural.  
"I definitely think we should take this back to the Council," Belas insisted again.  
I roused myself, and stuck both the gemstones, now linked firmly together, back into the depths of my backback, and got up. I felt lightheaded, curious, confused, annoyed, ecstatic. I gingerly kicked aside a rock; another piece of rubble, undoubtedly a former part of the statue, and a flash caught my eye as the torchlight reflected off a something underneath the rubble. I kicked aside a few more rocks to clear the object, and now it was my jaw that dropped; a lump of ebony the size of a small child lay nestled in the rubble at the foot of the statue, the glow of firelight dancing across its smooth surface. I stared at the thing in disbelief for several moments before I roused myself to call Belas  
"Look at this would you? It's bloody ebony!"  
"The f...'?" Belas answered as he turned to me.  
Since Vvardenfell was lost the price of ebony had ascended wildly. A lump this size was worth the price of a small house.  
"Can't believe it's just sitting here after all these years, you'd think someone would've grabbed it," I said jovially as I reached down to pick it up.  
"No wait--!" Belas just had time to call out before a jarring screech of laughter pierced the air.

  
I reached for my sword and spun around to meet the voice behind me, but met only blinding white as a gout of flame engulfed my arm, and sent me flying to the ground. The first sensation was the smell of burnt flesh, then nausea as I realized the stink came off my own arm - but then I hit the ground, and felt a molar shatter as I clamped down in pain.  
The pain was blinding, but I managed to roll onto my back to look at my attacker; the dremora stood at least seven feet tall, the only part of it not covered in dark, runic plate was its face; blackblue skin that framed its eyes; two red orbs that burned with such malice as I had never seen. In its hand it held a spear almost as tall as itself.  
And as it raised the spear; it smiled, smiled at my pathetic frame as I lie there, my useless, charred arm unable to even grasp my sword. Then suddenly its eyes shifted; the malice withdrew and became replaced by something resembling suspicion; if not fear - and the daedra only just turned around in time to parry the blow as Belas's sword clanged loudly against the spearblade.   
I struggled to my feet. My arm screamed in protest at the slightest movement, but I got to my feet as the clanging of steel on ebony echoed through the shrine. I looked for my sword, in vain, among the rubble, but then the clanging stopped as a sword clattered to the floor. I looked up. Belas stood helplessly disarmed before the dremora - and then the daedra smiled and shoved the spear through his gut.

  
Three feet of shaft protruded out his back as Belas sank to his knees. The dremora didn't even bother pulling out its weapon, and simply let him collapse to the floor as it turned to me and drawled: "And now you."  
I turned and ran, as well as I could. Abandoning my sword, abandoning Belas, I just ran, because I knew I would die if I tried to fight. I ran blindly, not even realizing the dremora had blocked my path out, and I was only stumbling further down into the depths of the shrine.  
Whenever I stopped for breath, I could hear the heavy footfalls of the ebony plated boots behind me. The daedra was in no rush, and I felt as though a rock dropped through my belly, when I realized it was just toying with me; enjoying this, like a cat that has trapped a mouse.  
I ran and ran; down stairwells through strangely angled archways and along rune covered, mouldy walls, the echoes of steady footsteps haunting me around every corner. I ran and ran until I finally stumbled down a staircase into pitch blackness.  
I don't know when I'd dropped my torch. I hadn't even taken notice until now, as the other halls had been bathed in the gleam of daedric runes. But here, in this final chamber, there were no daedric markings, and no light at all. I crawled on all fours, fumbling across the floor in the gloom. And still I heard the rhythm of footsteps behind me; growling louder and closer.  
My eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom; only the barest inkling of light entered this grey darkness. I crawled faster; searing pain shooting up through my arm as my charred skin shifted and chafed with every movement. Then my hand suddenly went cold, as it closed around a piece of metal the shape of a plated boot.

  
I looked up, expecting to see eyes like charcoal staring down at me, but there was only more darkness; and the slightest gleam of metal. I stumbled upwards, using the strange shape before me for support. My hands fell into a cavity around chest height. No mere crumbled brick or dented armor; but an intricatedly cut metal cavity; a myriad tiny surfaces, smoothed to perfection, arranged to fit tiny cubicles. A bell rang dimly in the back of my head, some urgent connection that even managed to drown out the sound of footsteps - grown so much louder now - for a moment. A voice in the back of my head loudly proclaimed 'might as well give it a go' and pulled from my backpack the brass crystals, and shoved them into the cavity. They clicked into the socket perfectly.  
I could feel the drum of power as the thing before me came alive. The crystal lit up, bright enough to throw a red glow across the whole room, and revealed the shape before me, which had begun stirring; the sound of clicking and spinning felt deafening as gears and cogwheels spun to life inside the automaton. The thing was taller than I, like a suit of armor connected not by flesh and bone, but by tubes and girders.   
Behind me, the rhythm of footsteps stopped. I froze in terror; barely daring to turn around, but through some force of will I did; and turned to see the dremora standing but a few paces behind me. It still carried that sardonic grin, but it was diffused somewhat; it showed doubt.   
My mind was racing, if only to think of a god to pray it, but I was shaken out of my thoughts as I was shoved aside by the advance of the brass knight.   
And then that same, now familiar velvety voice filled the chamber, but it now had a note of menace, a hint of hatred that even that daedra's screech could not match.   
"You are unwelcome here," the automaton declared as it strode forward.  
The dremora conjured a gout of flame from its hands, but the flames licked uselessly against the brass casing as the machine grabbed the dremora by the neck, lifted it into the air, and punched a hole clear through its throat. The daedra instantly dissolved into a thin cloud of dust that drifted to the floor, and settled gently at the feet of the automaton.

  
I lay still there for a long moment, still not knowing whether I would die. I simply stared at the thing, which had grown silent. It's face, or what should be a face by normal proportions, was just a webbing of tubes and gizmos which hadn't even eyes to gleam.  
With a strange serenity I arrived at the conclusion that if it was going to kill me, I couldn't stop it. So I got to my feet and walked towards the stairs, out of the chamber. Praying silently that I would not feel its metal grasp on my shoulders. But when I reached the stairs, and started climbing upwards, it didn't follow.  
I made my way up through the shrine, along those tangled hallways and twisted passages, until I finally found myself back inside the main chamber. My companion still lay there; crumpled on the floor beneath the broken statue, quite still. I dragged myself to him, and dropped down to the floor. A weak gasp escaped him, as I propped his head against my knee. He was blinking excessively, like he couldn't focus, but eventually his eyes found mine.  
"There's a hole in me," he whispered.  
'There's a hole in me', he said. 'There's a hole in me'; as if the fact wasn't already screaming in your head. But in the end that's all he said. 'There's a hole in me.' And then he died.

  
I don't know how long I sat there, staring dumbly at his unseeing eyes. I don't know how I found the strength to pick him up, my charred arm gone cold now that all the nerves had died. I don't know how I found my way through the ruins, headed numbly to the exit.  
When I stepped out through the broken doors the sun had set in the sky. The stars were out, as clear and white as though painted. I'd always loved looking at the night sky before, but now I felt nothing. Only cold.  
I laid him upon a bare rock outside that terrible place, folding his arms across his chest and closing his unfocused eyes. I poured a bottle of torch oil across his chest, and gently struck a spark across it, letting it quietly catch fire. I watched his body slowly burn away, turning to ash and drifting towards the sky, towards those pale, indifferent stars.  
I don't know who's directing our fate, if anyone, if it's the Reclamations, or the Ancestors, or fucking Sheogorath, but whoever's the Scroller of this story; please, oh please let us up out of this.

*

  
I sat there by the dying fire for several minutes, until I heard the the automaton come up behind me. I didn't even bother turning to see it coming. I felt old then; immeasurably tired. I had gone numb.  
Slowly a velvet voice came to me. It sounded as though it came from very far away, like an echo carried over the sea, but truly it was right behind me.  
"He is with his ancestors now, gone with the wind."  
The voice reverbrated in my head, but the words remained incongruous and insignificant. Nevertheless I turned to face the machine, which now stood beside Belas's fading pyre, solemn and grey.  
"We should not linger here. Here there is nothing but sorrow," it said, turning to the horizon. And without another word it began to walk off towards the west.  
And somehow I felt compelled to follow. Some strange force beckoned me onwards. I do not know if it was simple curiosity, or the realization of how badly I wanted to leave this terrible place, or both, but somehow, with my charred arm now numb and cold and my shoulder and jaw aching terribly, I managed to pull myself to my feet and slowly set off in the footsteps of the automaton. The only thing I took from Belas's belongings was his sword, for I daren't return to those ruins to retrieve my own.

*

  
This automaton was unlike any I had ever seen before. It mostly looked like the sphere guardians one so often encountered in dwemer ruins, but it walked on two legs like a centurion. At first I kept my distance, walking several paces behind the machine. It wasn't that it had shown any signs of animosity - indeed it seemed almost indifferent to my prescence as it strode down the broken paths of the isle - but in my time I had heard and read of more than one explorer of dwemer ruins carved apart by automatons thought to be docile.  
Eventually, however, curiosity and the loneliness of travelling in silence got the better of me, and I picked up my pace till I was walking alongside it. There was nothing to be gleaned from its face and I searched that flat morass of gizmos and gyres in vain. It had, however, proven capable of speech, and so I finally worked up the courage to ask - feeling quite silly as I did so: "What are you, exactly?"  
The velvet voice boomed instantly from within the metal shell, only slightly distorted by the sound of gears and whirring: "Until recently, just a metal husk. But you have helped remedy that."  
At this the automaton turned its face to me and for a moment I faltered, but it wasn't hostile in the slightest, indeed, it almost seemed thankful.   
"... those gems I put in your chest?"  
"Indeed," it acknowledged.  
"What are they? I don't really know what I did back there, in the ruins-" I broke off, a lump catching in my throat. The automaton didn't interrupt and simply waited patiently. After a moment I found my voice again and continued unsteadily: "I didn't know what I was doing, the crystals just seemed to fit and, well... What are they, any way? Those crystals?"  
"They're soul gems of a sort. They were enchanted to clue the finder towards the next, that they might all be collected, and used to activate this body."  
"Soul gems?" I asked skeptically, and for a moment I was afraid necromancy was involved. The automaton seemed to guess my concern.  
"Don't fear, you're not holding some innoncent soul imprisoned. My soul was split before my death, and stored within these gems for safekeeping. Indeed, they're the only thing keeping me alive." - "Well," it corrected itself, "keeping me coherent, at least."  
"So, who were- are - you? I don't know of many enchanters that could bind their own soul. Were you a Telvanni, perhaps?"  
"I'm afraid I cannot tell you. My soul was fractured into several pieces, and we have only recovered two of the three. As of now I don't truly know who I am; I only have enough memories to guide me to the fragments and machine frames."  
"Frames?" I asked, puzzled: "Plural?"  
"Yes. Bodies like the one you see before you, to host the soul gem fragments. Before my death, I hid copies of these frames alongside each of the fragments. Three in all."  
I fell silent, but the automaton seemed to guess why, and continued.  
"I had hoped any who found a gem, would also activate the nearby automaton. There would also have been one hidden within Dagoth Ur, somewhere near the crystal undoubtedly. Although from your expression, I can tell you did not find it."  
I shook my head. I could not speak, for at that moment a deep pang of regret shot through me as I realized the mechanical body must've been hidden behind that last door in the citadel, in the old chamber of the Akulakhan - And I could not help but imagine what Belas's reaction to finding it must've been, and to imagine that he would never have died had we found and activated an automaton then and there.  
The automaton seemed once again to guess my thoughts, and spoke calmly: "Do not dwell on the past. You may analyze it, but do not torment yourself with dreams of what might've been. What happened, happened."  
"It's not that easy," I muttered, still convinced Belas might've been walking beside me now, had we acted differently then.  
"I know," the velvet voice answered simply.

  
We walked on for a few hours, until the grey hint of dawn began to creep across the silt laden beaches and marshmerrow groves. I had no wish to stop, if I could I would've walked on until I was safely back in Narsis, far, far away from those cursed ruins. But when the automaton stopped beaneath a large mushroom tree and beckoned me to rest, I sat down heavily and realized how exhausted I was. But still I refused to fall asleep just yet.  
"I can tell we're headed west, but where are we going?" I asked as I uncorked my waterskin, wincing as my burnt arm chafed. It had begun to hurt again.  
"For now west is right, towards the Bitter Coast region more specifically. But ultimately, we are headed to Artaeum."  
I almost choked on my water.  
"Wha- why? And how?!" I sputtered.  
"The why is simple enough; I hid a fragment of my soul there. The how is somewhat more complicated-"  
"But Artaeum is off-limits," I interrupted. "The Thalmor keep it under watch, they sacked it half a decade ago."  
"Oh?" the automaton seemed surpise.  
"The psijics interfered with some Thalmor plan, so they invaded Artaeum and sacked it. They hunted down the whole order."  
"How did they find it, these Thalmor? Artaeum is gone from the world, hidden away by powerful enchantments. It does not want to be found."  
"Some traitor or other helped them, let a horde of battlemages onto the island. They're probably still keeping it under watch, I don't think we should-"  
"We must go there," the machine remained resolute, though a hint of sadness now broke across the strength of its voice. "I doubt we will find any signifcant force there. Artaeum is open but to a select few, and will reject anyone else, one way or another."  
"Well then we can't go there, can we?"  
"Yes - because I happen to be one of those few."  
I looked at him (it?) skeptically: "Just who are you, really?"  
"Really? No one. But once we get to Artaeum, I might be something."  
I begged for more answers, but the automaton stubbornly refused, advising me to sleep, assuring me that it would answer in time, once I had slept. Eventually I gave up. There were no ash storms here, and the sun had already risen high in the sky, warming the earth beneath me. I unfolded my mat and rolled onto my back. Too many questions were racing through my mind, questions about Artaeum, about Red Mountain, about the daedra, and the automaton, and the identity of that strange, velvet voice.  
I lay awake for a long while. Somehow it struck me that I would fall asleep eventually, and when I woke Belas would still be dead, and I would begin a journey without him. Some part of my brain was urging me to fall asleep, for I knew that I must fall asleep eventually. But another part of me, and right now it was the strongest, insisted on lying awake; insisted that tomorrow would not, and could not exist until I was personally ready to live through it.  
But eventually I fell asleep, and the world went on.

*

  
I awoke a few hours later, sometime in the afternoon. The automaton stood stiffly beside me, quiet and watchful like a brass statue. I sat up on my mat, reached for my waterskin and immediately began to ask questions again.  
"If we're going to Artaeum, why're we headed for the Bitter Coast region?" I asked, but even before I finished the question, it occured to me that I hadn't the slightest idea how one would get to Artaeum any way.  
"An ancient dunmer stronghold lies there. Hlormaren it's called."  
I felt I had had enough of delving into ancient ruins, and was about to protest when the automaton assuaged: "We need not delve deeply into the ruins. I must only use its propylons."  
That only left me more confused. "But the propylons only link to other citadels."  
"Tradionally, yes, because no other pylons were known within Vvardenfell. But another one was constructed on my order; on Artaeum. Any of the pylons here in Vvardenfell might link you to Artaeum, provided you have the proper key, an 'index'."  
"And do we have such a key?" I asked, astounded.  
"I have it right here," the automaton answered, as it casually opened a compartment in its chest and withdrew a conal metal object, flashed it briefly and tugged it back inside the compartment. When it closed, the metal fitted so smoothly that it was impossible to tell there even was a compartment there.  
"Well then... I suppose we're off to Hlormaren then," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

  
The journey to the edge of the Ascadian Isle went smoothly. I had never learned to hunt like Belas, but every small river and waterhole was surrounded by more marshmerrow than I could carry, and bushes of corkbulb grew wildly all across the isles. Every evening the automaton bade me stop in a melodious, but firm voice and would light a fire over which to cook the tough corkbulb roots. It lit the fire using magic. I was quite surprised the first time, when this brass contraption motioned for me to put away my flint and tinder, and effortlessly conjured a gush of flames to light the twigs and leaves which served for fuel.  
Once I had gotten my surprised eyebrows back in line, I'd managed to say: "Never knew an automaton that could cast a spell."  
"Most automatons aren't powered by souls like mine," was the answer.   
And that had been terribly unsatisfactory, so I'd settled for eating my charred roots, and gone to sleep, carefully laying on my left, to avoid pressuring my burnt arm.  
I felt a dull numbness whenever I thought of Belas, and wondered what he would've made of all this. His death still seemed unreal, indeed everything that had transpired within that ghastly shrine seemed unreal. Like some terrible nightmare that had been made up to frigten and revile. But it was as real as the sun that rose over Vvardenfell every morning, and when I woke up it was that strange, taciturn automaton beside me, and not the dunmer I knew. 

  
We were through the isles in two days time, but once we approached the swamps of the Bitter Coast we had to slow down. Even the automaton, untiring as ever, was victim to the treacherous terrain. Its brazen feet sank deep into the damp ground, and we had to strenuously avoid muck pools and tangled brambles of swamp trama. It was during one of these arduous stretches of navigating ancient, overgrown paths that I finally decided to ask my mechanical companion: "What should I call you? Automatons usually don't have names, but I reckon you might."  
"Indeed," it answered, breaking apart a trama root to clear our path. "But I do not know it. As I've said, until the third fragment of my soul is restored, my memories are very limited."  
"Well do you remember what you were? When you were alive? It'd feel odd to give you a dunmer name, if you happened to have been a khajiit."  
The automaton considered this for a moment. "No, I believe I was a dunmer in life. You might call me Llothis."  
I stopped at that, my hand suspended stupidly above my head where it held back a slough fern leaf. "Not the Llothis, are you?" I asked sceptically.  
"No. I am quite sure I am not. His soul was eventually enchanted into his crosier, but since you insist on giving me a name, Llothis will do."  
That seemed a little presumptious, naming oneself after a saint. But then again; I'd asked. I hadn't time to ask anything else, for at that moment a kagouti came charging out of the underbrush.  
I'd been a reclaimer for six or seven years, and my reflexes were sharp as a result of the dangerous work. But still I only just had time to jump out of the way, narrowly avoiding being gouged by its tusks. I hadn't had time to plan my jump and so didn't even realize my error before I landed on my burnt arm and felt the barely healed skin split open. It took an impossible effort not to pass out from the pain. The kagouti was rearing around, stamping its feet and lowering its head for another charge. I drew Belas's sword clumsily with my left arm, knowing it wouldn't do me much good, but knowing also that I wouldn't be able to flee - the kagouti would run me down in two heartbeats.  
The kagouti bolted towards me, head low and tusks forward, stomping through the thicket and then took off, it's feet leaving the ground as it began to twitch and squirm uselessly; suspended six feet above the ground. I looked on in frightened amazement for a moment, before Llothis walked up behind me, his right hand aglow with magicka.   
"Are you unharmed?" he asked, looking down at me and completely ignoring the panicky, flying kagouti.  
The sight of the huge beast fidgeting uselessly in the air was so absurd that I forgot the pain in my arm for a moment, and managed to say I was okay.  
The automaton finally turned to the hovering beast, and had it had a face I'm sure it would have shown bemusement: "I suppose it went after you because it preferred your scent. Kagouti have little appetite for brass. Now, I don't think we shall have to kill it, do you think? Unless you are very hungry--"  
"No," I managed. "I'm good."  
"Good then, I suggest we move on."  
"You're just going to leave it like that?" I asked, feeling somewhat affronted. It occured to me how strange it was to be defensive about it, for the thing had tried to kill me but a moment ago. And my arm was still searing with pain.  
"No, the spell will wane in a few moments, but we'll be long gone by then."  
It occured to me then that I hadn't thanked Llothis for saving my life.  
"Thank you, I owe you one," I said, trying to sound lighthearted despite the pain in my arm.  
"I believe I shall need you more than you need me before this is over, but for now you are welcome."  
And with that the automaton turned about and continued steadily down the path, as though nothing had happened. I took one last look at the kagouti, which had now managed to squirm and twist so much that it was hanging upside down, and shook my head, not quite understanding why a machine had to be so cryptic. And then I set off after my mechanical companion.

  
When we finally forced our way through a last bramble of trama roots, and came upon the ancient stronghold of Hlormaren, I must admit, I was somewhat dissappointed. Whatever glory this citadel had had was long since gone. Little remained but an overgrown mound of bricks and mortar, with a few broken domes atop where the entrance would be. It was said that there was as much to these strongholds below ground as above, but the tunnels underneath the fortress had probably collapsed by now. Thankfully; the tunnels were of no consequence to us, and we climbed up the mouldy, worn staircase to the flat top of the stronghold. The main fortress had crumbled (presumably because the tunnels below had collapsed), but one small dome remained intact, no larger than a commoner's shack.  
"The propylon chamber," Llothis motioned towards the door, which was miracuously intact, inviting me to follow him to it.  
The wooden door was forced shut by an ancient lock, and for a moment I cursed myself for never having learned how to pick a lock, but my regret was shortlived, for Llothis simply burnt a hole straight through the door, melting lock and a large chunk of wood, and then pushed open the door.   
As soon as the door had opened, a droning sound permeated the air, and soon I saw the source; Two huge monoliths, surrounded by strange claws of ancient stone, and shrouded in a reddish glow stood at either side of the small chamber, filling your head with the hum of magicka.  
"I'm glad to see they are still intact. The closest strongholds, Andasreth and Marandus, are far from here. And I suspect they're even more damaged."  
I barely registered what he said, for I was so mesmerized with the radiance that played across the stone monoliths; lashes of red and purple and that undulated back and forth gracefully. Llothis, however, seemed entirely untouched and stepped up to one of the two monoliths, and located a small grove within it, apparently for fitting the index, which he had already retrieved from its hidden compartment. He looked to at me, and stood quiet for a long moment before he finally spoke: "Well?"  
I snapped out of my hypnotized fascination, and looked questioningly at the automaton.  
"... are you coming?" the velvet voice beckoned me.  
Not quite sure what do to, and now somewhat fearful of that intense, reddish glow, I stepped uncertainly onto the dais beside him. As I crossed through the red glimmer and let it envelop me I felt a strange tingle, as though the magicka was running through my body. If I had thought to reconsider, to turn back out of fear or anticipation, I wouldn't have had time to do it, for immediately the automaton inserted the index into the pylon and the world around me dissappeared in a flash of blinding red light.

*

I felt an overpowering sense of nausea, and it felt as though I was accelerating wildly in every direction all at once. I don't know how long we were hurtling through space on currents of magic, but I kept my eyes firmly shut, afraid of what I might see.

  
The first sensation then was a slight breeze; a tingling across the skin, ever so slightly chilling. Then the taste of salt flew gingerly across my lips, and the chirping of birds found my ears. I felt hard ground beneath me, and it occured to me that I was lying on my back. I opened my eyes.  
The sky was awash with colour; pale rosy clouds spread all across the heavens. Below the cloudcover was a brilliant sunset; a kaleidoscope of coral, red, and apricot. And throughout it all was an intricate web of golden rays, encircling the vault of the sky like an aurous lattice. I looked about.  
Cyclopean stone columns of uncountable age and grand marble balconies stretched forth from the nearby cliffside. Here and there black scorch marks marred the whitegray surfaces, but mostly the buildings were unblemished save for the thick ivy which hung lushly from every awning. Llothis stood beside me, calm as ever, and watched me, but said nothing.  
I felt I could have lain there an eternity, bathing in the richness of the sky and the cool breeze with its slight tingle of salt, but eventually I got up, cumbersomely, for I dared not use my right arm for support just yet. I struggled to my feet and faced Llothis, who had been waiting patiently.  
"There's only one chance to experience Artaeum the first time. I did not wish to disturb."  
"Thank you," I managed. "It's beautiful here."  
"Indeed. Though I wish you could have seen it before."  
I blinked a few times, my eyes still adjusting to the brilliance, and then I followed Llothis along the cliffside, heading down towards the coast.  
As we turned about a corner, I couldn't help but gasp. At the edge of the water, on the island's far end, stood a massive tower of blue, cyan, and amethyst. It had the lustre and verdance of living coral, but stood as grand and sturdy as the Tribunal temple. As I looked closer however, I saw that it was damaged. Badly.  
Towards the heights of the citadel several turrets had been torn open, presumably by some explosion, and many surfaces were marred by black soot. I continued in the automaton's footsteps hesitatingly, but stopped short when I saw a dark cloaked figure on the road before us.

  
"Halt!" the figure called out, and strode towards us.  
I froze instantly, but my companion continued unabated, marching with the same steady pace.  
"Halt!" the voice commanded once again. By now it was closer, and I could gleam the features of a high elf beneath the black vestments. It was a thalmor wizard.  
Finally Llothis stopped, only a few paces away from the mage.  
"Why are you here? How did you manage to find this place?" the elf barked.  
"I should be asking you those very questions," Llothis answered, unpurturbed.   
I winced slightly, and cursed myself for not explaining to my companion how dangerous - and proud - the Thalmor really were. And the elf clearly took offense.  
"You trespass here, surrender yourself to interrogation immediately, or I shall force you to," he said, forming a shimmering barrier in front of him. A mage's ward.  
"This will not end well," my companion said sadly.   
I was about to yell; to scream at him to give it up - but then I saw a glow of fire from behind the barrier; the mage was going to incinerate us.  
My companion had seen it too, and raised his hand lazily - almost indifferently - and with a flick of his wrist; the fire was snuffed - and the mage fell to his knees, eyes bulging, and grasped his throat.   
The automaton turned to me, his hand idly gesticulating, like a leaf drifting in the wind - a dull glow of magicka about it the only evidence of a spell being cast cast. Didactic as ever, its velvet soft voice explained: "Shielding yourself with a ward is well and good, but he should have shielded his surroundings as well."  
The machine turned to the elf with a look of teacher pointing to some museum relic; and it had never been more frightening to me than in that moment.  
"It was the simplest thing to suck the air from out around him ... and all the wards in the world won't do you any good when you're dying in a vacuum."  
And, indeed, I saw a faint shimmer about the mage; a dome of magicka in which a person was dying. Soundlessly.  
The automaton set off down the road again, as if nothing had happpened. It didn't even afford the mage a look in passing.  
I must admit; I hesitated then. I was afraid to follow in this creature's footsteps - this being of unknowable age, and terrible wisdom, this inscrutable machine, whose mind you could never even pretend to know. But then, if I tried to stay and help the Thalmor, I would probably be interrogated and killed for my efforts, so what choice was there but to follow and continue along this strange path.  
And so I quickly set off after Llothis. Forcing myself not to look at the thalmor mage, as he lay on the ground clawing at his throat.

  
As we approached the coral citadel, Llothis came to a halt, and motioned for me to stop as well. At the foot of the tower, in a small plaza of sorts, stood a contingent of elven warriors. There were at least twenty of them.  
"I do not relish the thought of taking on so many in this... reduced form. It's better if we try to avoid them."  
I nodded meakly. I didn't the relish the thought either.  
We tumbled and slid down a small ridge, and stumbled onto a beach of fine yellow sand. The sight of the turquoise water and rose sunset would've been beautiful, if one had time to appreciate it, but my whole being was focused in praying to whoever would listen that those battlemages would not hear us and come looking. We snuck our way along the strand, and every hiss of steam and click of gears from the automaton sounded impossibly loud, amplified a thousand times by my own anxiety. How could the Thalmor fail to hear it?

  
Somehow they did not hear us, and we made our way to the very tip of the island, and the coral citadel now stood towering over us, impossibly large now that you stood just below it.   
Llothis motioned for me to follow, although this time he did not speak, but remained silent. We crawled back up the sand dune to stand right below the centre of the tower, and for one excruciatingly long moment we stood exposed, entirely visible and just a few dozen paces away from the Thalmor. They were, however, mercifully preoccupied with some sort of cooking. They were likely just getting ready for dinner. My companion walked quickly to a flight of stairs that wound downwards into the ground, and I followed him, my heart pounding. We made our way quickly down the stairs until we reached a large door, apparently carved into a natural cave below the tower.   
Touching his mechanical hand to the door, Llothis opened the gateway with a short incantation, and we stepped inside a great cavernous vault that spiralled downwards at least a hundred feet.  
As soon as the door was closed behind us I sighed heavily, and it occured to me that I was sweating profusely. Even Llothis remained somewhat muted as we began the descent to the floor of the cave. The whole place was filled with a soft blue light, and it took me a while to realize that it emnated from an iridescent pool at the very bottom. When we reached the floor I looked about, expecting to see another automaton somewhere, but I failed to find one. My companion apparently took note.  
"It may be that the frame is inside the tower. But I should think the soul gem is here."  
I looked around again, but truly it seemed the cave was empty save for the iridescent pool and small pillar in front of it. Once more Llothis seemed to read my confusion.  
"Not here in the strictest sense of the word. I believe it is more thoroughly hidden."  
The automaton walked up to the pillar by the pool and, placing both hands upon it, began a spell; an incantation in some strange language that I didn't recognize. Suddenly the pool seemed to come alive and lustrous azure water danced upwards, flashed a brilliant turquoise for a moment and fell back down in a strangely slow manner, quite unlike any normal water ought to fall. And as the water settled down again it revealed a small brass-red crystal of immaculately smooth surfaces lying in its centre.  
The automaton picked up the gem and placed it neatly into its chest cavity, filling the gap perfectly. A brief echo of a voice rung across the room. "D.U." it whispered and then faded as a shield slid over the cavity, and the automaton was made whole.

  
I couldn't think of anything to say then, or anything to do. The quest was over, the last fragment reclaimed and put in its place. What would happen now? My companion answered my silent question immediately.  
"I believe we should deal with those Thalmor now. They have long overstayed their welcome in Artaeum."  
And with that the automaton marched back up the ramp towards the surface. For a moment I was too stunned to do anything, and for a moment after that I was afraid to follow though I knew I must.  
I half ran, half stumbled back up the winding staircase, barely keeping up with the automaton which strode forward with determination like never before.  
When I reached the surface the automaton had already caught the attention of the Thalmor, and they were quickly arraying themselves in a semicircle around it. Some wore robes like the wizard, others were clad in moonstone armor and grasped slender elven blades (why in Oblivion were they in armor? Who could they be expecting here?).  
One of the cloaked elves, apparently the leader, stepped forward towards my companion and raised his voice: "Who are you to trespas--"  
That was all he said for in another moment the whole contingent of battlemages left the ground and were tossed several feet into the air, suspended and paralyzed in an eerie glow. For a moment I expected my companion to suggest we walk off and leave them there till the spell wore off again, but that was a kagouti then, and these were the Thalmor, who had wiped out the Psijic Order and sacked Artaeum.  
"You are the trepassers here. And Artaeum shall suffer your prescence no longer."  
And then those black robes and gilded plates of moonstone began to crumple and twist, and for a hideous moment sounds of cracking filled the air as bones and sinew fractured under the weight of the automaton's spell. The screams lasted only a second and then Thalmor were dropped carelessly back down to the ground; the spell completed and every bone in their bodies crumbled.  
I struggled not to vomit.

  
It was a while before I recovered my senses. We returned to the far side of the island in silence, to that serene little corner where we had first arrived. Here too there was a view over the ocean, where the sun had almost set upon the horizon. We both sat on a small marble bench untouched by any of the fighting.   
I was still struggling with the sound of the Thalmor's screams, but eventually the thought slipped away, and the memory became hazy. So much had happened in the past few weeks, I felt I had grown resistant to shocking things. It occured to me then that this was the first time I had witnessed the automaton to sit down. I looked at him (it?) then and my thoughts churned restlessly.  
"I am sorry for that. But you must understand; I knew the people here. The Psijics. Indeed I considered many of them friends. Seeing these 'Thalmor' here, these murderers who claimed the island as their own and warded off 'trespassers'..." he made a sound not unlike a sigh: "I rarely grow angry, but this was too much."  
I sat still for a while, looking at the fading sun and trying to imagine what this creature must feel. I tried to imagine those elves were all dremora who had killed Belas. A thought occured to me then.  
"You say the Psijics were your friends?"  
"Indeed. Some of them at least, but I was always fond of the Order."  
"So that means you have your memory back?"  
"Yes, I believe so. Though I still feel oddly... hollow. But that much is to be expected when your heart is handful of cogs."  
"So... who were you? Who are you?"  
"Ah, I was hoping you might have guessed that by now. I have several names, but I reckon you would know me best as Sotha Sil."

*

  
Maybe that did make sense, and maybe I had guessed it by then. Or perhaps I was just flattering myself. We were both silent for a long time then. The automaton - Sotha Sil - sat quietly, simply waiting for me to speak. Only a sliver of sunlight remained upon the scarlet horizon, but still the sky was brilliant with the glow of the golden lattice that hung over the island. I felt that I should have a thousand questions to ask, and maybe I did, but somehow I couldn't put any of them into shape. Each one simply invited more, and it became impossible to start. But Sotha Sil waited patiently and somehow I decided to at least ask the little questions first.  
"Why the name Llothis?"  
"I'm not sure; some residual memories resided within the gemstones and I must have recalled the name of my old, dear friend. I suppose I might also have asked you to call me Divayth. We could spend hours analyzing the idea, determining exactly why I chose that name, but some things are better left untouched. Left alone to be insignificant."  
Fair enough, I conceded silently, for I had more pressing questions.  
"Why was your soul torn apart like that? Split into three parts?"  
"Oh I split it into much more than three; there are fragments of my memory and conciousness scattered all across the Clockwork City, and a few other places. But 'split' is such a violent term; saving a copy is more apt. I truly did die, once, but with recordings of my memories, thoughts, and yes; feelings, I could piece myself back together - with your help of course."  
"Yes, I helped, somewhat. But really I had no idea what I was doing. We happened upon your soul gems by chance. You said you left clues within the Soul Gems? Well; we didn't interpret anything of it."  
Sotha Sil remained quiet, and I couldn't tell whether he was thinking of an answer or waiting for me to ask another question. I decided to assume the latter.  
"Why not leave the crystal with the Psijics? Or leave instructions to someone? We only found the first two fragments by pure luck."  
"Perhaps I wished for someone like you to find them, to happen upon them at random and set off of their own accord. Someone with luck, as you say."  
"But," I protested, "we had no idea where we would find the stones. We might have stumbled into any old daedric ruin and we would never have found your frame, or the second gem - and you would remain..."   
".. Dead?"  
"Well," I said, strangely embaressed by the idea of calling him dead. "Incoherent."  
"Indeed the clues were almost impossible to follow, unless you knew what to look for, or unless you were being guided"  
Now I really felt the need to protest: "So, what, some divine or daedra guided us to your soul gems?"  
"Oh nothing like that, I should think. But perhaps something more."  
"What 'more'?" I asked incredulously.  
"Even the divines and the daedra do not truly act off their own accord, indeed; aedra and daedra in especial are bound in action and in aspect. They act how they're supposed to act, that is all."  
"So what are you talking about? What directed me and Belas to enter those ruins? What... why did my friend have to die? Was it 'fate'?" I asked scornfully.  
"To me, fate is naught but ripples across the sea of causality..." he trailed off, staring towards the horizon, now naught but an evanescent line. "But perhaps for you it is a different story," he finally finished.  
"How do you mean?"  
"To be truthful; I am unsure."  
And with that he deemed the topic concluded, apparently. But I had other questions to ask, any way.  
"Something's been eating me."  
"Yes?" Sotha Sil asked encouragingly, in his velvet voice.  
"I understand Artaeum, of course; this was supposed to be a safe place. Ceporah Tower, that's what it's called right? 'C.T.' the gem clued us here when I touched it. Even Dagoth Ur made sense as a hiding place, because no ordinary person would ever go there. But some old Daedric ruin, even one dedicated to a Corner?"  
"Artaeum seemed safe, yes, and the dwemer citadel had, for lack of a better word, a history with myself and my brother and sister. And indeed, since the fall of the Sixth House very few would dare trespass in the halls of Dagoth Ur. The ruins you found have... sentimental value to me. Their original name was Ald Sotha - my birthplace."  
"A.D." I whispered, mostly to myself, but he heard it any way.  
"Indeed. It was the seat of my House, a minor clan of merchants and mystics who had carved a small corner of the Ascadian Isles for themselves, and built a temple there."  
"Did you worship Dagon?" I asked, mortified.  
"No, that statue was raised later, after Dagon himself had razed the city, destroyed my House, and murdered my family. The place was dormant for many years. Until some of Dagon's followers decided to commemorate the event with a statue."  
"And you were okay with returning there? To the place where your family was killed, to hide a soul gem?"  
"To be truthful with you, I was never adept with emotions, but alas the sorrow is still there - although time has... blunted it."  
I felt a stab of regret. God or not, it became jarringly apparent to me that I'd just accused a man of not caring about his family's death.   
"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to sound insensitive."  
"Nor did I," Sil answered calmly. "Sorrow is not an easy concept, even to a god. At the time - on that day - I was convinced even a thousand life times of crying wouldn't empty out the tears... But they stopped flowing eventually, and the veil lifted. Mostly. The emptiness where my sister, my family and House used to be will always be there - but it's less noticeable now; like some nightmare that doesn't quite feel real any more... It happened over four thousand years ago, you know?"  
I only nodded. I had a hard time grasping what four thousand years felt like.

  
The sound of birds had faded away with the sunlight and now only the gentle rushing of the waves breaking upon the shore broke the silence. Although we had been here only for a few hours, I felt as though weeks had passed, sitting quietly by this shadowed, golden shore. I wondered briefly if time flowed differently here, but it didn't matter. The quest was over; I felt I had nowhere else to be.  
"You know, I would've expected more questions from a mortal. Your kind has always been curious. I adored that about you. Come now, it is not everyday one gets to meet a living saint."  
"You don't think of yourself as a god?" I asked, somewhat thrown off.  
"I never did. But my brother and sister found godhood to be essential; I wouldn't deny them the pleasure of the title."  
I thought about this for a while. Or rather, I felt the need for a thought-pause, though truth be told I wasn't sure what to make of this, really.   
Finally I gathered the courage to ask: "your sister... saint Ayem..."  
"... Yes?" Sil guided me.  
"Back in those times, before the fall of the Temple, there were rumours; about treachery and... about lies told by saint Ayem. And that she..."  
"Killed me?" he finished helpfully.  
I knew from his tone that it was true. And I was hit by a shattering sense of injustice; that the New Temple should still hold Almalexia a Saint, a heroine of bygone times, her crimes washed away in obscurity to ease the reformation of the temple... Anything to let the people have their heroes.  
"But she was supposed to be 'Mother Morrowind'," I managed to stammer, a deep set feeling of betrayal constricting my throat even though this happened to people I never knew in a world so long gone.  
"She was. She loved the dunmer as though they were her own children, and she sowed deceit to reap love and adoration."  
"That seems so... wrong," was all I could manage.  
"Wrong ... ? The Tribunal itself was founded upon a lie, as my brother tried to tell you. In the grand scheme of things, Almalexia's machinations were trifles. But indeed, lying is an unstable method."  
I said nothing, for I could feel an explanation approaching.  
"The truth, while at times arduous, is always simple. That is what I adore about it. A lie however, is a complicated game. It creates an unstable fantasy; a mirage that will collapse painfully should it ever collide with reality. The liar must constantly toil to keep this phantasm alive; in a sense they become hostage to their own deceit. The waning of our powers was a source of great stress to Ayem, and to compensate she wove a web of lies worthy of Mephala. In the end, her loss of power and the strain of keeping up appearances became too much for her to bear. Even gods have limits, you see. Gods in particular, in fact."  
"Well, that doesn't sound so different from what the Temple did. Or what they're doing now; making a saint of Almalexia... in spite of everything."  
"Indeed?" Sotha Sil seemed amused. "I should have thought the Dissident Priests would disown me and my fellow Triunes entirely. But truly, the lies are not so dangerous in themselves. The true danger is in deceiving oneself."  
"Almalexia did that?"  
"Yes, I'm afraid so. As I've said I never thought myself godly in any manner, and Vivec was painfully aware of his own inadequacies. But my sister became obsessed with the idea of godhood. Her own lies and the love of her subjects convinced her she truly was a goddess, rivaling, or even surpassing, the Divines and the Daedra. When our powers began to fade it drove her mad. And she was more dangerous then than she had ever been in her full might."  
"Can I ask you another question?"  
"What sort of mystic would I be, if I denied you that?"  
"... Do you resent her... for murdering you?"  
At this the god did something quite rare for him; he paused, and I got the peculiar sense that, had the automaton had a face, he would've smiled.   
"What a curious question," he said after a moment. "No, I don't believe that I do. Almalexia could only be Almalexia; no more, no less. To use me as a scapegoat to solidify the love of her subjects - I would've been dissappointed if she hadn't tried it. Though I wish I'd been there when it happened, I would've liked to speak with her, at the end."  
"... you weren't there when it happened... ?"  
"My body was, of course; locked in the Cogitum Centralis. But my mind was elsewhere, adrift amid gears, cogs, and brass. She always resented my absence from worldly affairs; I imagine she must have taken some offense when I didn't even bother being present at my own death."  
"How did you know she would do it?"  
"History is but a long sequence of repeditive information, and once you know how to analyze the patterns, you learn to read history before it happens. Almalexia's actions were as inevitable as the sunrise on the morrow. I had the foresight to take precautions against them. If you face the facts, life is really quite predictable."  
We were both quiet for a time. while the answer disturbed me, I was somehow more disturbed at the calm with which he had said it. The idea that you, or no one, had control over their fate, that it was all decided for you by someone else, by a thousand unknowns, should fill you with despair, but Sotha Sil seemed untroubled by it. As though he accepted it with indifference. Another question formed in my head, but I was afraid to ask it; afraid of the answer.  
"Can you foresee my death?" I finally asked.  
"I might make an educated guess or two. Though I'll also guess that determining it will do more harm than good.

  
"So," I said after a while. "Where do we go from here?"  
"Are you in a hurry to leave?" Sil asked calmly.  
I listened to the sea; to the ocean breaking steadily, ceaselessly upon the powdery sand of the shore below us, shrouded in the faint midnight glow of the golden sky above us. I considered for a moment to stay there forever. But I don't think I was made to stay in one place for too long.  
"No. Not really."  
"Good, because I think I could use your help."  
"Mine?" - It seemed impossible that this godling, who had so recently wiped out a small army of Thalmor with a flick of his hands, could need my help for anything. "Whatever for?"  
"I knew a person like you once, but that was long ago. They belong to the past and it is the future we must look to. I'm afraid a great many things will fall to you before this is over."  
I groaned.  
Sotha Sil seemed amused: "Have I offended you somehow?"  
"I thought once your soul was put back together, we'd be done with the mysteries."  
A sound not unlike a laugh escaped the automaton: "Forgive me, I'm afraid I may have picked up a bad habit or two of Vivec's. But in fact, if you have no more questions, I might show exactly what you can help me with."  
"Please do."  
Sotha Sil stood up, and looked across the golden lattice of the sky. "I am glad I got to see Artaeum again, even in this sorrowful state. But come now, I have a special place for us to visit."  
And I followed the automaton, my curiosity piqued.

  
A few moments later we stood in the Dreaming Cave below the tower again, and Sotha Sil's metal frame had its hands upon the dais, beginning another incantation. The waters swirled and grew brilliant with light, but this time they did not extend to offer a crystal, but contracted, churned, and withdrew to form a watery gateway.  
"This portal shall take us to my Clockwork City," Sotha Sil said, beckoning to the portal. "After you."  
I gasped with excitement, and gingerly stepped into the water, feeling myself dissappear into it.  
It was a much more pleasnt experience than the propylon network. As I stepped into the portal I felt as though I was enveloped in water; but never did I fear drowning, and simply sunk into the cool envelopment. It was only a moment and then I woke in another world.

*

  
The first sensation was that of noise; clicking, clanking, hissing, whirring, hammering, pumping noise all around me. Some sounds were close by, others muted by distance and layers of walls, but the noise was omnipresent. I opened my eyes to a sea of brass and bronze all around me. A piston was steadily thrusting right-left, right-left just beside me, and occassionally a hiss of steam escaped shrilly from a vent above it. Above was a canopy of brass pipes crisscrossing and twisting in a network that was impossible to follow. The only light that entered the room was thrown from an archway at the end of the chamber; it opened up to a light-bathed stairway that twisted upwards out of sight. I guessed I must be underground. Quite far underground, probably.  
"Do you like it?" asked Sotha Sil, emerging behind me. Somehow the teleportation hadn't left him flat on his back.  
I sat up quietly, looking around at the morass of pistons, gizmos, and flywheels that spun and pumped all around me. I had been in dwemer ruins before, but they seemed static and empty compared to this brass skein.  
"It's... quite overwhelming," I said honestly.  
Sotha Sil looked around at the tangle of brass, seemingly quite at home and unable to comprehend why anyone would find it confusing.  
"Well, you will get used to it. Follow me, please."  
He walked towards the stairway and began ascending, the clanking steps of his mechanical shell quite in tune with the whir and buzz of his surroundings. I got to my feet quickly, and followed him, gingerly dodging around the tubes and pipes that filled the room.  
The stairwell was less crowded, and brightly lit by a succession of lamps that glowed with a bright, blueish hue. Whether their light was mechanical or magical in nature, I couldn't say. Perhaps a bit of both.  
We emerged from the stairwell into a grand hallway, tubical in shape, and streching away into the distance further than I could see. And here the noise was even more pronounced. It seemed the whole world was hissing and clanking. But among the pistons and tubes I saw a different type of moment, and was startled when dozens of automatons, quite like Sotha Sil's own frame, began emerging from the chaos of pipes and gizmos. For a brief, panicky moment I was afraid they would attack us, as exploration in dwemer ruins had taught me they would, but the automatons seemed quite indifferent to our prescence and simply went about their business. Some were adjusting screws, welding pipes with small gushes of flame, or simply stamping back and forth, seemingly busy.  
Sotha Sil could see my amazement, and possibly hints of my fear, at these things and calmed me: "Do not mind the factotums. Their actions are automated, and they won't harm you. At worst they'll bump into you, if you get in the way."  
I wasn't wholly convinced so I stayed close behind Sil, and tried not to pay them any mind as we began walking down the hallway towards some unknown destination.  
I could barely keep up with Sotha Sil. His mechanical body striding forward with all the steadiness of absolute determinism.  
"Where are we going, exactly?" I asked, having begun to feel out of breath. And the tunnel still seemed endless.  
"To see about a construction of mine. I reckon it must be done by now."  
"But," I objected. "You've been... well, dead... for quite a while. How would you have built anything?"  
"I planned this long before my death, and my factotums have been dilligently carrying out the construction while I was indisposed."  
'Indisposed' seemed a balmy way to describe being a fragmented handful of soul gems for over three hundred years, but I didn't object as I half-walked, half-ran to keep up with Sil, who seemed to be picking up speed.

  
After the better part of an hour (or so I thought, as it was hard to tell time in these sunless halls) we emerged from the tunnel, and I found myself in a titanic dome, seemingly hundreds of miles across. At least I thought it was a dome, but I couldn't know for sure, as the walls curved upwards so terribly high that the ceiling (if there was one) was shrouded in blackness. But it was most certainly a circle. And in the center of it all stood a shimmering tower.  
It was tall; very, very, very tall. It stretched into the boundless darkness above, seemingly rising into infinity - I knew it couldn't of course, but I felt that the size of this tower must give a much better idea of 'infinite' than the actual concept ever could.  
Whenever I tried to focus on any particular point on the spire, it seemed to twist and turn, like the sight itself was trying to escape me. I strained myself for several minutes, trying to narrow down a point on the tower until my eyes were hurting with the effort. Finally I turned to Sil: "Why... how is it doing that? Shifting like so?"  
"It is written in duplicity," Sil answered nonchalantly, as if that explained anything.  
"What d'you mean written? It's a building, you don't 'write' buildings."  
"Have you not heard of the Elder Scrolls? The writings contained within them detail all possible presents, pasts, and futures. Is it so strange that a single tower might be writ as well?"  
"Well no," I conceded. "But by what you're saying, the Scrolls are just like some set of schematics to be read by any old idiot, that sounds overly simplified."  
A deep, clacking sound escape the automaton, and I took it to be a chuckle.  
"No, they most certainly aren't written in Cyrodilic or Dunmeris or any such language, if that's what you're saying. But in one way or another, our world is written. And this tower is written in ambiguity. I constructed parts of it in other realms, and it is only loosely anchored in this reality."  
"What other realms? Are you saying there's a copy of this tower somewhere in Oblivion?"  
"Parts of it," Sotha Sil answered simply.  
I shook my head, partly because that was an annoying answer, and partly because the shimmering tower was making my eyes itch with discomfort.  
"But it's not entirely dubious, is it? I still see a tower there; even if it tosses and turns about, it's still definitely a tower."  
As I said that, the automaton grew strangely rigid and stared stiffly towards the tower. It was only for a moment, and then Sotha Sil turned to me once again: "Yes. Indeed it is a Tower, but I can only do so much. I shall need help to finish it."  
"It's not finished?" I asked in wonder, looking again towards the pillar that stretched so far into the skies.  
"The tower stands complete, but no; it is not finished - it is missing a crucial element, but we will talk more about that later."  
And with that the conversation was over, though I felt no wiser than I had before. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  
We began walking again, heading towards the tower. For a moment I was afraid we should have to walk the entire distance, which might easily have taken a day, and I dreaded the idea. But soon we arrived at a small platform, made of brass like everything else for miles around, where a duo of factotums guided us to a small cart, nestled deftly on a long set of rails. As soon as climbed aboard, the platform began to move, sliding forwards effortlessly, like the elevators found in dwemer ruins, although this one was horizontal.  
Soon we were gliding at an immense speed, and I imagined we'd easily outpace a kagouti in full sprint.  
"This is amazing!" I called, having to shout over the rush of the wind. "We should have these on the surface, you would travel from Mournhold to Narsis in an hour!"  
Sotha Sil seemed almost bored with the experience, having doubtlessly taken this trip hundreds of times: "They're a pain to build when they have to run up and down."  
'So?' I was about to ask, but then thought back to the wilds of Morrowind; the foyadas and the valleys of greens, and towering spires of volcanic rock. And now I looked out across this colossal expanse of brass and bronze that stretched to the horizon, immaculately smooth and unblemished. How far away the world I knew seemed now.  
Soon the platform began to slow down, as we approached the base of the tower, which seemed now impossibly large, filling the horizon. But still it refused to come into focus. It was like looking at something through running water, the visage always shifting and fracturing. Slipping.  
The gliding platform slipped neatly into a dock at the foot of the tower, having perfectly deaccelerated so there wasn't even a jolt when we made our landing. Sotha Sil stepped off the platform almost before it had stopped, and strode towards the tower. Now that we were closer, I saw a doorway at its base. Surely it stood taller and wider than half a dozen men, but still it looked almost comically small against the titanic bulk of the tower.  
Sotha Sil was already halfway to the door before I shook off my stunned amazement. He turned to me, for the first time seeming impatient, and called: "Are you coming?"

*

  
I caught up with Sotha Sil by the doorway, and the brass portal slid open soundlessly, allowing us into the cavernous insides of the tower. I looked up into the great empty darkness above. The tower seemed mostly hollow, except for a cylinder that stretched upwards from its middle, and I recognized the design of an elevator. Sotha Sil extended a hand, beckoning me towards it.   
We rode the elevator in silence, and I was glad of it, for the speed was dizzying as we accelerated upwards, the walls of the cylinder flashing past us. But before I knew it, we began to slow down again, as we approached the top.   
When the elevator finally stopped I staggered, somewhat unsteady on my legs which felt blubbery from the long ride. Sotha Sil, of course, remained steady as ever. The doors opened, and I could not help but gasp.   
The Clockwork City stretched on endlessly before us; a sea of brass that filled the horizon all around us; an intricate network of tangled, indistinct shapes; the grandest, endless tunnels looking like the finest filigree so far below us.   
On unsteady legs I walked to the edge of the platform and looked down, feeling my stomach turn as I looked down the straight path to the ground, so incredibly far below us. I stepped back quickly, feeling queasy, and sat down flatly and looked up to supress my vertigo. Looking up only made my nausea worse though, for above us was the shimmering, hazy sight of the tower, stretching even further upwards.   
I forced my eyes closed, and gulped several times. I had never been skittish about heights, but this all seemed impossible.   
"How..." I gulped again. "How in Oblivion does it do that?"   
"Do what?" asked Sil, nonplussed.   
"Continue... Up."   
"As I said, it is written in duplicity. You think you're at the top, but in another realm this might be somewhere else. We could be at the bottom."   
I eased open my eyes, looking out across the expanse of the city, so staggeringly far below us: "We're definitely not at the bottom," I managed to stammer.   
"Definitely. Yes, that's the heart of the issue."   
I didn't have the energy to probe at that answer. I was still trying to get a grip of all I was seeing, without vomiting. 

  
After a while my nausea had resided and I dared open my eyes fully, looking out across the Clockwork City. As long as I didn't look up, I felt relatively secure.   
"So where are we, really?"   
"Atop the tower, of course. The top as we see it, at least."   
"Yes but, I mean this," I gestured meekly towards the City below. "The Clockwork City, where is it?"   
"Beneath Mournhold."   
"But..." I shook my head: "There couldn't possibly be room for all this beneath Mournhold."  
"The Clockwork City lies beneath Mournhold, without a doubt. But the tower's location is a difficult concept. At least I have endeavoured to make it so. Only a small portion of it is definitely here in Tamriel, much of it is nestled in Oblivion and other realms."   
For a moment I considered looking up, towards the spire that I knew stretched onwards above us, shimmering and out of focus, but I resisted the urge. I didn't care for another bout of nausea.   
"But I could see the tower stretching onwards. So are we at the top or not?"   
"Yes and no," Sotha Sil answered stubbornly.   
"Yes and no," I repeated, unable to avoid getting annoyed. The vagueness of his answers, the strangeness and impossibility of it all was so... unsatisfying, and I cursed silently. "Yes and no," I mocked. "So what; it's a 'maybe'?"   
And at that, for a brief, fleeting moment, so short that I doubted it had been real, the automaton stopped short; entirely. Every gizmo, piston, or cog grew silent, halted, and it grew rigid. But then it was back to its regular churning, spinning, and whirring, and Sotha Sil's velvety voice emerged melodiously, ignoring my question entirely.   
"I knew someone like you once. A faded memory now, not even captured in the Planisphere. Obscured. Another Prisoner of this world."   
"Prisoner?" I asked indredulously, but stopped short, because suddenly I couldn't exactly recall whether I had ever been to prison or not.   
"No, not that sort of Prisoner," Sotha Sil explained, having guessed my thoughts. "But I'm afraid you might not quite be their equal. But I think, perhaps you shall be enough."   
Finally; anger rose like bile in my throat. And I knew in an instant I had been angry for a while now; grossly unsatisfied.   
"What are you getting at, damnit? This damnable secrecy, this vagueness and elusiveness. Prisoners and faded memories. And this maybe-tower? What in Oblivion's the point of it all?"   
I had risen to my feet, somewhat out of breath even. My fists clenched at my sides. But Sotha Sil remained calm as ever. Indeed he did not even look at me, staring simply towards the ephemeral spire that I knew stretched onwards above us out of sight.   
"The Tower of Maybe - I like that," he said simply.   
I was about to yell at him again, to curse him for not answering, to curse the impossibility of it all, but soon his velvety voice rose again.   
"This tower is here as a safeguard against nothingness," he raised his hand dismissively, silencing the protest he'd guessed was forming in my mind. "It is a guard against those that would unmake this world. Those that would tear down the walls of this reality, undo the cycle of life and death. Some of the dwemer tried it once, the altmer have been trying for ages, and doubtlessly still are. And for all these years I've been afraid that someone would eventually suceed."   
I couldn't think of a single thing to say and simply waited for him to continue, my anger residing gradually - replaced by skepticism and apprehension.   
"I cannot guard the world against these Unmakers. One day I will die - truly die. One day my foresight will slip, or the machinations of mortals will fall short, and the world will return to the morass of the pre-Dawn twilight. Undone and unformed. This is what Auriel and his followers always sought; they did not see the value of all this," he gestured to the horizon, to the infinity of brass that stretched out around us.   
"What?" I asked meekly.   
"Mundus. The Grey Maybe. They would give it all away for a static nothingness; a simple 'no'."   
I felt my mind slipping, not knowing what to say now at journey's end. I could say nothing here, at the climax of my existence.   
"But this tower; this damnable, shimmering, and unsecure Tower I have built was to ward them off. For they cannot destroy what they do not know, what they cannot define and narrow down. But..." he trailed off, and for the first time I noticed how miserable he sounded, the silken melody of his voice almost breaking.   
"... But as you pointed out so cruelly, it is definitely a tower. And it is incomplete. And I could never complete it on my own; not in a trillion aeons. The world has always relied on Heroes like you. That is why I need your help."   
"How could I help? What could I accomplish? I’m not a hero, I'm just a nobody from nowhere. A poor actor on the stage of gods. What can I do?"   
"Everything, my friend. Everything and anything. Whatever is required of you, I know you will do it."   
"... why?" was all I could ask.   
"My friend, hasn't it occured to you that you're a work of fiction?"   
That hadn't occured to me.   
"My role in this is over, my narrative draws to a close. But you are the last piece of this puzzle. Through your Eye may be perceived our world from without, and our world may always live on in the visions of Heroes like you; equivocal maybes. You are what Vehk never could be; undefined. You are the Stone of Maybe."   
He turned to the sky so infinitely far above, so unendingly out of reach: "You! This Stone is yours to chisel. This ending is yours to choose." 


End file.
